Señuela, Soria, Spain: between a hello and a goodbye

I have always been surprised by the number of events, things, experiences or details that occur between that space of time that exists between two simple words, such as a hello and a goodbye. Think on it, and to be honest, I must thank that great singer-songwriter who is Joan Manuel Serrat. Not in vain, his songs have accompanied me on so many trips, that apart from providing me with a title to warm up the imagination, offer me, at the same time, the perfect title to narrate some experiences that, although simple in appearance, denote that special singularity with which the sorianos extend the hand to the stranger.

For someone who has read-and even heard-many stories throughout his life, starting without the typical topic of once upon a time, it is, in the end, a pleasant novelty. So, paraphrasing this dear companion on the road, I could well affirm, without ever missing the truth -or that appearance of truth, since, like opinions, we all have one and we always think that ours is the one that counts- that at the moment when I had Señuela again in sight, I could not help but say: autumn suits you, what a pleasure to see you again ...

Because, without resorting to hallucinogenic remedies to open those doors of perception, as the classics Huxley, Leary, Lilly or Castaneda would say, it is true that Lorca appeared, in the eyes of this unrepentant traveler, with a healthy and totally different aspect to the last time I saw her. No doubt, for a Celtiberian soul, the emerald green color with which the earth proclaims its desire to live, taking advantage not only the last drop of rain but also until the last sigh of the morning dew, represents a vision as pleasant as pleasant , that deserves, at least, a brief description.

Filled with water at the urging of neighbors, the oval shape of the pond contributes to create a surrealist image that, as if it were a mirage, gives the town a pleasant and at the same time picturesque appearance of the sea. Or if you prefer, and being carried away by the endearing, if not sweet, look of the Impressionists of all times and places, the aspect of a romantic watercolor framed in the mediatic goodness of its intense and natural nuances.

At the foot of the promontory-let's not forget that Señuela sits on a solid heart of living rock-and laboring with the patience of an artisan at the wheel of his tractor, a farmer combs furrows in the ground, while the curious medieval tower of the church of Santo Domingo of Silos, he washes his face in the mirror of the pond, anticipating a moon that, although imperceptibly, begins to yawn, threatening to wake up in a matter of hours.

In the streets, although they can be seen and meow, cats are missing. They say that there was a dog, aggressive praxis, which is so fashionable in the current times, which ended with several of them. Perhaps for this reason, those that remain, no doubt foresighted or of lesson learned, maintain a prudential distance. Enough, at least, to allow them to escape in the event that any of the seven lives that tradition gives them can be threatened. And it is not a banal issue. There are threats that can not be foreseen, but that really exist. Señuela, like any other town, not only of the province, but of any province, knows well how true it is.

Threatening threats, in the shade, whose disloyalty, premeditation and treachery, cause a vomit of disgust in honesty and make the distrust of the stranger, after all, can be justified. I am happy to say that it is not my case, although some tongue mouth, which like the meigas in Galicia, habelas haylas, pretend to hang sambenitos in someone else's head, instead of taking care of placing them in their own.

This - and I return to the threats that, as I say, have them too - is evident, on the way to the laundry. There is this, something beyond a small grove of Druidic aspect, in which trees and underbrush cover an old well that, by its shape, seems to be taken out of that vital game that every pilgrim travels, apart from pretending to enter into the mysteries of the past, intends, incidentally, to also enter the knowledge of itself: the Game of the Goose.

It is striking, in fact, that yellowish mold that like a second skin adheres to the bark of trees with bare branches that dream of the resurrection in the spring, and I wonder, if perhaps formerly it was not part of those home remedies, those remedies of the grandmother, in whose ingredients, also contained that hand of saint capable of putting even the devil himself. It must have been this, undoubtedly, the one who suggested to the miserable human locust to commit outrage against the patrimony of others.

In fact, apart from some stones fallen from the wall, the footprint of the beast is still on the ground. It is circular in shape, similar to those others that the good people of Devonshire discovered a good morning in the snow, and deep, which shows that, after all, it must have been a great effort to get hold of the two laundries, despite the articulated arm of the truck. A complete premeditation for a job, I repeat again, unworthy. It is not surprising, therefore, that there are those who, in good logic, put their own to safety. And this, deep down, does not stop being an outrageous question, because it indicates, sadly, that you can not be neither calm nor safe in your own home.

And still, life continues in Señuela. And what the hell, it does in spite of meigas and lobsters, of sadness and disappointment; he does it, with that special kind of joy and human pleasure that comes with the simple gesture of sitting at the table with friends, with no other law or purpose, than to enjoy unforgettable hours in his pleasant company.

Obviously, feeling like a friend, I would be short if I did not also express pride, not exempt of joy, that made me be able to be part and said, that I do not judge, in that table and have some short but unforgettable moments of pleasant conversation with the incentive added to enjoy some delights that, to top things off, do not zampa nor a king.

And for you to see that neither I lie nor exaggerate, and making good the saying that a picture is worth a thousand words, here I leave this video. And now I ask: after this, who cares about the turkey on Christmas Eve ?. Therefore, apart from my most sincere gratitude, I also swear to you and perjure you, dear friends of Señuela, that for the next you do not stop warning me, that like the jokes of Arévalo, I introduce myself in the town, like the priest, to the exact time to eat. A big hug to everyone.

Related videos:

NOTICE: although original in Steemit, was published for the first time in my blog SORIA WAY WALKS WHEN WALKING. Both the text, photographs, and videos (with the exception of music, reproduced under a YouTube license) are my exclusive intellectual property. The original entry, where you can check the authorship of juancar347, can be found at the following address: https://juancar347.blogspot.com/2012/12/senuela-entre-un-hola-y-un-adios.html

designed by: @txatxy

@tximeleta