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- First in a series of Pastoral Spanish/Basque Sheep Scenes.
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- Second in a series of Pastoral Spanish/Basque Sheep Scenes.
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- Third in a series of Pastoral Spanish/Basque Sheep Scenes.
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- Fourth in a series of Pastoral Spanish/Basque Sheep Scenes.
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- Fifth in a series of Pastoral Spanish/Basque Sheep Scenes.
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- The ladies patiently waiting to be milked (as if they have a choice).
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- Pastoral Spanish/Basque donkey scene.
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- Gaggle
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- Euskadi, el Pais Vasco, the Basque Country
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- San Sebastian
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- Ports and the “Conch” bay in San Sebastian
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- Miscellaneous Madrid
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- Miscellaneous Madrid
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- Miscellaneous Madrid
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- Miscellaneous Madrid
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“Ragged Wood” – Fleet Foxes
I headed north and was hemmed in by high, lush hills on a little farm tucked off the coast. Euskadi; el Pais Vasco; the Basque Country. Spain’s lush north Atlantic Coast where cool air off the ocean collides with warm southern winds bringing consistent, stormy washes of rain to the land. The mossy forest covers the rugged hills hiding their rugged relief; it is so rugged that the Romans and Moors never claimed this neck of Iberia and the Basques’ strong sense of identity lives on today.
The farm is owned by Guillermo, a Dutch fellow, and his Basque wife, Konchi. It’s a quiet, organic, free-range, solar-fed, wind-powered, manure-fueled biogas-collecting, beautiful piece of living in the hills just off the north coast. Vistas bonitas, homemade sheep’s milk cheese and enough beautiful brown eggs in two weeks to give me a heart attack at my tender age.
The days were routine: in the morning Dave the contented Israeli farmer and I reached through wool dingleberry dreadlocks to milk the sheep for the cheese; we put the sheep and stubborn ponies out to pasture; we worked demolishing and reconstructing a terra cotta roof and then in the garden a little. Then lunch, siesta and a bit more work. In the evening we would bring back and count the 57 sheep, the horses, feed them, feed ourselves, read, sleep. Somewhere throughout the day I would have one-sided conversations with the various geese, duck, chickens, cats, dogs and a peacock who every day struts and displays for the chickens, who are frightened by and oblivious to his advances.
I was there for two great weeks, wiling away the days before seeing Wilco in San Sebastian. I called it Farming for Wilco.
On a sunny Sunday I left for San Sebastian, the crown of Spain’s northern coast and my favorite of the cities I’ve visited in this beautiful country. There I met Pablo, the Mexican-Canadian-Portuguese connection. We spent many a quality hour on the beach and enjoying rare San Sebastian sun and a small slice of the area’s world-renowned wine and cuisine. All range of possible subjects were discussed, digested and discussed again. Solidarity established.
On one particularly serendipitous evening we sat at the port by the fishing boats having a beer outside a bar when who should walk by but Wilco. We apparently haunt the same San Sebastian bars. I told Jeff Tweedy he was merely my second favorite musician. That ought to ground his ego! The next day, just as I was expecting would happen, I met a guy from Chicago and he and his girlfriend bought me my ticket to the show, dinner and drinks. Exquisite rock and roll was had by all. And all on the fifth anniversary of my father’s death. Not a bad day to be alive.
I’ve had my last travels across this beautiful peninsula for now. There is too much to write, too much I haven’t seen, too much history I can’t comprehend. But it is time to go north again. So, with fond memories of Portugal’s beautiful coast and the infectious, festive passion of the Spanish people, I bid Iberia adios for now.
“Wilco the Song” – Wilco will love you
