"A village with their own dialect and far from everything"

 

"From Fascinating Spain comes ‘San Martín de Trevejo, the village in Extremadura where Asturian (sic) is spoken’.

It begins ‘This is possibly the most isolated town in Spain, located in the Sierra de Gata and bordering Salamanca and Portugal. This geographical isolation may explain why it has an old town far from all the stereotypes of Extremadura.

It also conserves its own dialect, A Fala, which has been declared an Asset of Cultural Interest…""

(Found using the excellent weekly news service Business Over Tapas.)

"Spain's coal miners continue to wait for their country's Green New Deal"

"Credit: 

Lucia Benavides/The World"

 "Spain’s government isn’t getting much done these days.

No political party won a majority in the nation’s general elections in April, and parliamentary negotiations to form a new government remain at a standstill. If a new government can’t be formed by Sept. 23, Spanish voters will go back to the polls in November for another general election, in what would be the country's fourth in four years.

One of the many projects on hold is Spain's “ecological transition” — a push to close all of the country’s coal mines and transition to renewable energies, like wind and solar.

Related: How a forest became Germany’s poster child for a coal exit

People in Spain’s northern region of Asturias are anxiously waiting to see how things play out. They’ve been mining there for 150 years. But today, the industry is almost dead.

During a recent weekday at the San Nicolás coal mine, dozens of miners — mostly young men — walked out of their shift around 2 in the afternoon, in a hurry to get home and eat lunch. The underground mine is located in a valley, surrounded by lush, green hills. At its peak, the mine employed around 2,000 people — today, about 200 work there. It’s the last working coal mine in all of Spain.

Gorka Peña, 36, has been working at San Nicolás for nine years. He says his father was also a miner, and he didn’t expect to end up in the trade himself.

“There’s no future here, no youth,” Peña says. “The towns are becoming more depopulated, its residents are getting older. You don’t have anywhere to go, so you have to migrate.”

Last October, the leading mining union struck a deal with Spain’s Socialist government to funnel 220 million euros ($246 million) into the region over the next decade, which would include retraining programs and investment in new industries.

“In Asturias, what we’re asking for and what we need is for this 'ecological transition' to be exactly what it says it is,” says José Luis Alperi, the union’s spokesperson. “That is, that no one be left behind.” "

Read more from Lucia Benavides article at PRI here.

Now available: "Slow Travels in Unsung Spain" -- my latest non-fiction book

I'm very happy to say that my new non-fiction book is now available here.

"a compelling and eclectic narrative full of the unexpected" 
-- Nick Inman, Rough Guides

Slow Travels in Unsung Spain is a warts n’ all trip through some of Spain’s hidden gems: towns, cities, landscapes and cultural highlights that are typically overlooked by foreign tourists but which the Spanish often keep to themselves. 

My next book soon to be published by Apocryphile Press

[Photo of  abandoned building in Catalonia: probable book cover by John French]

Very happy to say that "Slow Travels in Unsung Spain," my next non-fiction title will be published by Apocryphile Press (USA) some time in 2019.


​Partly from a desire to remind myself why I live here, the book is a very personal exploration of parts of the Iberian peninsula that are typically overlooked by foreign tourists, including the regions of 
Extremadura and Asturias, the urban areas of Zaragoza, Cordoba, Ecija, Jaen and Ubeda, as well as Catalonia.

"Portrait of an Asturian miner" - My latest article for Catalonia Today magazine

The coal miner's wife wakes him and he coughs. He shuffles to the small bathroom sink and spits black liquid, washing it away with with the brown tap water.

Last night he slept badly, suffering from stomach cramps, diarrhea and vomiting again. He had been working in the zinc mine at Arnao in Castrillon but the Belgian company who own the site have let him go to the San Juan mine. He felt himself to be quite lucky. At least there they had a river pool for the miners to wash in.

As he leaves for another day under the earth the miner looks for a last time at the mountains, at their ferns and the tall groups of eucalyptus - – pencil thin, not quite straight, just like the trees in a Dr Seuss book. He sees the houses with their sharp pitched roofs in front of deep gorges and is comforted by the roll of the hills across this green land.

Our miner is living before the era of the chemical plants and big metal factories. He knows others who dig for iron and knows it’s vital for tinned food because electricity and refrigeration have not yet arrived to this part of the world.

His mine, like many mines, is close to a river: a means of transporting the coal for trading this raw material with British towns like Cardiff and Newcastle-upon-Tyne [where my own father was born and also grew up next to a polluted river.]

This miner's children will one day see the construction of chemical industries, thanks to the mines, thanks to his labour. In fact, he thinks, as he makes the walk to the pits, the story of Asturias is the story of the miner and the story of the miner is the story of Asturias. It is one of hardship and scant reward, of growth but also ill health. It is a tale of the deep earth's hidden secrets and humanity’s immeasurable suffering with the open spaces of the valleys and their claustrophobic confines - as unforgiving and back-breaking as any imagined hell in those greedy shafts penetrating ever downwards into the planet.

Today, like thousands of other days, he will launch his body into the ground and probe for hour after hour for that black rock. Finally, at the end of the day our miner will take aspirin for his aching bones, smiling at the ironic fact that it has ingredients made from the very coal he has been digging for. He does not yet know though that, decades later, his children are going eat kiwi-fruits and chestnuts that will come to grow particularly well in the carbon-coloured soil left from abandoned open-cut mines scattered across the nearby hills.

As the miner eats his simple lunch with his hands still blackened by coal dust, he remembers his father, who was also a miner. He too worked to extract the iron that was in such high demand for both twentieth century century world wars – a metal that helped the rich become richer. His father started life as a rural worker and had to adapt from the rhythms of the seasons to the very different rhythm of an industrial timetable. He had to learn to accept days and nights with no sky or trees, down in the mines which lay right next to his cramped terrace house.

Like every other subterranean labourer, his father and he both wondered if life could ever be different for them. He’d heard that things were a bit better at the only mine run by a trade union. But it was on the other side of Asturias and he had never even visited there.

Our miner lives in Bustiello town where all of the aristocrat Marques de Camilla's workers have their neat little houses below everyone else, at the bottom of the valley. It is an orderly, rectangular village and each house has a small garden. Up the hill above them live the engineers and above them is the church, then God of course. This is what he knows: the planning of the town exactly reflects the social and spiritual hierarchy. The Marques is a conservative man. He fears the progressive men who want social change.

Further on in the mountains there are mining zones that suffered from “special measures” during Franco's dictatorship. Around Pozo Fortuna trade union activists were assassinated and their bodies were thrown down an old pit-hole. Our miner speaks about this sadly with his friends and later falls asleep hoping that the bad times will end.

In the morning, he rises and faces another day.

[This article was first published in Catalonia Today magazine, December 2016.]

An Asturian coal miner

The coal miner's wife wakes him and he coughs. He goes to the small bathroom sink and spits black liquid, washing it away with with the brown tap water.

Last night he slept badly because he had stomach cramps, diarrhea and vomiting again. Until last year he was working in the zinc mine at Arnao in Castrillion but the Belgian company let him go to the San Juan mine, where he considered himself quite lucky because at least there they had a river pool for the miners to wash in.

As he leaves for another day under the earth he looks for a last time at the mountains, their ferns and the tall groups of eucalyptus - pencil thin, not quite straight, but just like the trees in a Dr Seuss book. He sees the houses with their sharp pitched roofs, the deep gorges and is comforted by the roll of the hills in this green and pleasant land.

But it is only a pleasant land for some.

The miner lives before the era of the chemical plants and the big metal factories. He knows others who dig for iron and he knows it is vital for tinned food because electricity and refrigeration has not yet arrived to this part of the world.

His mine, like many mines, is close to a river and the river is a means of transporting the coal for trading this raw material with British towns like Cardiff and Newcastle-upon-Tyne (where my father was born and grew up next to a river also.)

This miner's children will see chemical industries grow, thanks to the mines, thanks to his labour.

In fact, (he thinks to himself as he makes the walk to the pits) the story of Asturias is the story of the miner, and the story of the miner is the story of Asturias. It is one of hardship and scant reward. Of growth and ill health. It is the deep earth's hidden secrets and bountiful suffering, the open spaces of the valleys and the claustrophobic confines - as unforgiving and back breaking as any imagined hell in those greedy shafts penetrating ever downwards into the planet.

Today, like thousands of other days he will throw his body into the ground and probe for hour after hour for that black gold. At the end of the day he will take aspirin for his aching bones, smiling at the ironic fact that it has ingredients made from the very coal he has been digging at.He does not yet know though that his children will one day eat kiwi-fruits and chestnuts that grow particularly well in the carbon-coloured soil left in the abandoned open mines that are scattered across the nearby hills.

As the miner eats his simple lunch with his hands still blackened by coal dust, he remembers his father, who was also a miner. This man worked to extract the iron that was in such high demand for both 20^th century world wars – a metal that helped the country become richer. His father had started his life as a rural worker and had to adapt from the rhythm of the seasons to the very different rhythm of an industrial timetable. It was necessary to learn to accept days and nights with no sky or trees when he was underground in the mines, which sat right next to his tiny terrace house.

Like every other subterranean labourer, his father and he both wondered if life could be different for them. He had heard that it was a bit better at the one and only mine run by a trade union. But it was on the other side of Asturias and he had never even visited there.

Our miner lives in Bustiello town and all of the Marques de Camilla's workers have their neat little houses below everyone else, at the very bottom of the valley. It is an orderly, rectangular village and each house has a little garden.

Up the hill above them live the engineers and above them is the church then god of course. This is what he knows. The planning of the town exactly reflects the social and spiritual hierarchy because the Marques is a conservative man - not in the least progressive.

Up in the mountains though, there were some mining zones that suffered from “special measures” during Franco's dictatorship. Around Pozo Fortuna trade union activists were assassinated and their bodies were thrown down an old pit-hole.

Our miner speaks about this sadly with his friends and falls asleep hoping that the bad times would end.

In the morning, he rises and faces another day.

The colours of Asturias: a poem

the flag of the region should be green, black and red

Asturias is certainly verdant green, but it is also black

the black of the miners lung

and the almost permanent colour of his spit

it is also that sightless place of no mercy

at the bottom of the pit where

another of Franco's victims is thrown  

Asturias has a history the color of carbon

the same earthy tint as the blood sausage

that has fed its people

and black like the hide of a cow

who has quietly ruminated on its grassy hills .

and there is that black of a thousand widow’s dresses

mixed with that black of the children’s despair

at their fathers early death

the same dim shade of the early morning forest where

the dictators enemies hid shivering, hungry, but unbroken

and the crucial Asturian black

the lump of its freshly-mined coal

or that frivolous fully-rotten apple

as dark as the night-time ocean that empties itself

into rivers like the Nalón

as brutally stark as an unlit mine

and it might too have been

the charcoal feathers of a bird

that watched all this great grim past

with its darting granite eyes 

and Asturias has a culture full of red

red like some of those ripened apples

that make the people's everyday cider

not as red as those huge painted silos that hold it all

the enflamed red too of the wild flowers that grow here

and the smoky paprika powder that is sprinkled

on yet more cooked potatoes

but it is also the red of the dead

the civil war corpses and the slaughtered soldiers

that ruby rich hue that also inhabits the church wine

and the vino tinto waiting on the table

or even red like the double bars of the Spanish flag

with that saffron yellow lying

in between those royal stripes

and also that arterial red

of those painted iron trains

the ferrocarill

that opened up

the heart

of Asturias

Asturias...as it is

Tomorrow I am going to Asturias - one of Spain's relatively un-touristy and lesser-known regions. 

I will be part of a group of four other writers (including the novelist and travel-writer David Baird) co-sponsored by Tourism Asturias, and we will be visiting locations to come up with stories to be used to promote Asturias, and more particularly a new Parador hotel that is due to open next month in a converted 11th century monastery in the area of Cangas de Narcea.

More to come soon...