Chasing Shadows: A true family saga from Spain to Liverpool by J Carmen Smith

Author:J Carmen Smith [Smith, J Carmen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Santiago de Compostela, Spanish memories, Liverpool saga, family history, family saga
Publisher: Corazon Books (Family Saga)
Published: 2013-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Galicia

Summer, 2000

We were coming to the end of our travels. In the last couple of days, we had seen Tui Cathedral, which was, as the guidebook promised, ‘a quirky architectural gem’. As a result of frequent invasions in the past, it had been converted into a fortress, complete with battlements.

In the national park of Monte Aloia, stumbling across a small group of musicians rehearsing in a clearing, we enjoyed a private recital of classical music. Finding a flat rock, we sat, still as geckos in the afternoon heat, until the last notes faded away. When we burst into spontaneous applause, they took a bow in appreciation of their audience of two.

We stayed in a parador – a converted sixteenth-century Renaissance palace – in Pontevedra. The city’s architecture impressed us, but not the stench drifting from the chemical works along the river.

As independent travellers, we had been fortunate enough to slip easily from mediaeval city to lush, rural landscape, as the mood took us. I loved everything about Galicia – the scenery, the food, its people. But beneath the surface lay an even deeper impression. In Santiago, Coruña and Lugo, I had felt an inexplicable, but palpable link with the past.

We were heading back for our last night in Santiago before flying home. Our route took us along the main road that runs through Oroso and we decided to have one last look for the area called Vilarelle. The road was quiet, there were few houses and no sign of a taverna, where we might stop and ask directions. Jim finally pulled up at the roadside to take another look at the map.

An old woman came trudging past, staring curiously at the car as she pushed open the gate to her cottage.

Wondering whether my limited Spanish was up to it, I jumped out of the car and approached her. ‘Buenos días,’ I said, politely. ‘Dónde está – ?’ I indicated the name Vilarelle written on the piece of paper I was holding.

‘Sí!’ she said, with a friendly nod. ‘Aquí!’ She waved a work-worn hand towards a narrow lane running alongside her home.

I smiled in appreciation. ‘Muchas gracias. Adiós.’

Back in the car, Jim was sceptical. ‘Down there? Are you sure she understood what you were looking for?’ Nevertheless, he turned the car into the lane and drove on. Once again, it was like stepping back in time. At one point we had to carefully manoeuvre the car past a middle-aged man walking alongside his donkey and cart. There were people working in the fields on both sides of the lane and they straightened from their weeding, hoeing and scything to watch us pass. No doubt strangers were a novelty and they must have wondered what we were doing and where we were going. I was tempted to stop and tell them. I had not overcome the urge to tell the details of my family history to everyone we met in Spain. Perhaps I was trying too hard to fit in; looking to make up for the past I had lost.

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