The Sorian repoblated of Valdelavilla

juancar347 (72)in #travelfeed • 6 years ago

'Was I ever born in these gardens hanging out of time?'
[Fernando Sánchez Dragó (1)]

If I had to define myself, more than by the sand, I would suggest, without doubt as more appropriate, the comparison with the mythological Ave Fénix, because, contrary to what happened in Torretarrancho, it is not out of pride that I can affirm very high -and in fact, I affirm that destiny had me reserved to be reborn from my ashes. From my origins, I can suppose that once I was a schoolmaster -when I did not hide, given the situation of recollection and the depth to which I find myself- of brave warriors who dominated these hard and infinite mountainous areas, immolating themselves with pride in the site of Numancia -if such a thing is possible- before losing the most precious of its assets: Freedom.

I do not remember much of other historical periods of conquest and domination; but I know that, once these territories were conquered by the Muslims, I was repopulated by people of the cross, who were advancing uncontrollably towards the south, in the crusade they called Reconquista. I speak, therefore, of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, which offer, at least and as a business card, a pedigree of remarkable antiquity. Subsequently, I know, by an executory dated in 1550 - at that time, the almighty Felipe II was king - that already existed as Council of Valdelavilla.

Two hundred years later -year more, year less, which gives so much- and as the Marquis of the Ensenada testifies, I was three people in one: village, village and jurisdiction. Jurisdiction of San Pedro Manrique - until here the smell of bonfires came on the night of San Juan - although belonging, God willing, to His Excellency Duque de Arcos. At that time, "I continue to paraphrase Mr. Marqués," the population consisted, roughly, of just over a dozen neighbors, between pastors and farmers.

Population that towards the fifties of the twentieth century, barely consisted of about twenty families, whose offspring, wounded by those curious desires of future and prosperity with which the Gods -according to Homer- tempt men through the ivory horn of dreams , they got the migrations happening.

Well, Nª Sª de la Antigua knows, whose Romanesque image - I have always wondered if, as tradition says, it was also carved by San Lucas himself - watches over the solitudes of the cathedral museum in the cathedral of El Burgo de Osma. Because that was also his destiny, when, around 1968, the holm oaks of the road said goodbye to the last neighbors. The loneliness that came next, I find a memory so painful, like a stab in the lower abdomen.

The tutor who had been born to countless generations was a judge and part of a historic geriatric marked by neglect and abandonment. Winter blizzards, rains in spring and autumn and unbearable heat of cicada songs, split the roofs like hammer of God, whose beams gave way, taking behind them the stones that made robust and gallant facades that had proudly resisted the passage of the centuries. My memory, from here, froze.

Do not ask me how or why. I just know that after a long sleep, I woke up with my face as clean as the moon in its full phase. It took me some time to solve the terrible existential enigma regarding whether I was having the greatest hallucinations, or on the contrary, I had just awakened to the most wonderful of dreams. He did not recognize many of the faces he saw, of course, but the town had luster. The debris, free of brambles and lizard nests, had made good the universal principle of energy: nothing is destroyed, only transformed.

And I believe that it had been transformed. The people, licking their old wounds and adorned with etiquette, had become a rural tourist complex. A place where life called life, with the best ingredients that can be dreamed of: nature, relaxation and peace. True, I repeat, that the faces were not the same, although in some I observed a certain familiarity and that some voices were raised in foreign languages, of which I later learned, were intensive English courses.

True, also, that the posters were not the same, but what the hell, how proud I felt when I saw the one who, although simple, like life itself, said:

'They leave their captivity, old quiet bells and open their closed doors, the church and the cemetery. The wind carried away the mystery of the sad nightmare, with green meadows and a new seed. Without forgetting their dead, Valdelavilla 'is reborn (2). Let someone come and overcome it.

Notes:

(1) Fernando Sánchez Dragó: 'The way of the heart', Editorial Planeta, S.A., 10th edition, May 1991, page 179.
(2) L. Arevaco. There is also another, from Artemio del Valle, which says: 'It was a peaceful, silent town, full of sweet peace'.

The Sorian repoblated of Valdelavilla

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