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In Which The Fog Descends
September 23, 2007 by Mike
Gijon
I had a drink or two last night. I spent the first half of today on the beach, doing not very much at all. It felt like the right thing to do at the time. As in, I certainly didn't feel like doing anything as adventurous as moving.
This involved 'sunbathing' even as the most extraordinary sea-mist descended on the beach. It got colder by degrees. The sun all but vanished. All in the space of about three minutes. Nobody else moved, so neither did I. An hour later, as smoothly as it arrived, the mist dissipated and the sun got down to business.
And this evening I watched Sporting Gijon's 1-0 victory over Albacete. (This is about football.)
Interesting as it was to watch a match in one of the stadia used in the 1982 World Cup, and as a game it had its moments, the highlight was watching the crowd. Or rather, listening to it.
There was the man sitting in the seat to my right who spent half the game talking to the man on his right.. and the other half talking to the man on my left.. leaning across me and propping his hand on my knee. Friendly. He was talking about the game -- so much so, that he completely missed the only goal because he was yabbering. Then spent the next half-an-hour discussing it.
Then there was the purple-faced man with the red sweater in the next section. This guy is a heart attack waiting to happen. He spent the whole game standing on his seat, alternately spluttering and screaming advice, abuse and assorted curses at the players. (Even on the other side of the pitch they'd have been able to hear him. Except when..
..the crowd rose as one when ever the ref awarded a free-kick to the visiting team. This happened a lot. The crowd got louder and louder, some catcalls and jeers but overwhelmingly they whistled their opprobrium. Man, it was loud! They also had a decent repertoire of songs, most of which threatened to turn into "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles.." without ever quite managing it.
The sea-mist turned up again. Thicker and colder than before. Call it fog - that's what it is. (Sadly, I didn't bring my camera to the game, so you'll have to take my word for it.) Nobody else paid any attention to it. They were too busy whistling at the ref.
--
I'm in Asturias now, having already crossed the Basque Country and Cantabria since crossing the Spanish border. There's much less attention paid here to *not being Spanish* -- but in fact Asturias has its own separate identity as a Principality. Or Principalitate, as the tourist board's English language literature has it.
The heir to the Spanish throne is, by tradition, the Prince of Asturias. It's a dirt poor corner of Spain, from whose fields of empty prospects many people emigrated to South America. The coal and steel industries have died. They speak with a funny accent.
Do you see where I'm heading with this? I'm in the Wales of Spain.
If I was in Swansea tonight, I'd have a pint of Brain's and chips with curry sauce. Instead, I've sampled the local cider. There's tradition in its fermentation. There's tradition in the bottle and labelling (basically, there isn't any: you trust the barkeep). There's tradition in the pouring: bottle held high in one hand, glass held low in the other; pour three or four feet into the glass, spilling liberally on the floor, because you're not allowed to look at what you're doing.
One tradition they've managed to avoid: teenagers sharing a bottle of cider round the bus-stop, wearing hoodies, doing feeble tricks on a BMX and snogging. I think generally this is A Good Thing And To Be Greatly Appreciated.
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By rachel | September 24, 2007 12:26 PM
The Guardian travel section last Saturday described Asturias as Wales on steroids ... Beautiful - have a whizz up the road to Potes & beyond to the cable car http://www.flickr.com/photos/86338173@N00/1372668790/in/set-72157601957485826/
Rachel