Coping In The Campo

          Ten days in the campo (as they call the countryside here in north-east Spain) have done nothing to persuade me to adopt the rural lifestyle. Not that it’s been uninteresting or in any way unpleasant; just so unrelentingly, well, rural. There has been many an occasion when, outnumbered in company by agriculturalists, I’ve had nothing to contribute to the conversation; though, on reflection, I have now, through osmosis, acquired sufficient knowledge of olive harvesting and pressing to hold my own in a lightweight exchange on those subjects.

          True, most things you can do in a city, you can also do here: it’s just more convoluted and involves driving. For example, I went to a yoga class one day (I know, one scratches around for something to do) though it was only with the aid of Google maps that we were able to locate it, set as it was in a yurt, on yet another finca amid acres of identical-looking olive trees.

           Actually, I have had yoga lessons a couple of times before, once in the 1980s, then again, a decade later. On the first occasion the classes, funded by the local council, were abruptly discontinued after a budget review. And in the second instance, I found the teacher so disagreeably arrogant and impatient I could not bear to go back for more. This last experience, however, has revived my interest. The yurt was comfortable and the fee reasonable. More importantly, the teacher was charmingly considerate of my age-related inflexibility. I couldn’t bring myself to join in the “ommmm” but otherwise followed instruction as best I could.

          The campo is between the mountains and the Mediterranean, so, since the weather was conducive, we went one day for a swim down at Miami Beach (the original, I assume), at a cove designated for nudists. Not that we had intentions to skinny dip, it just happens to be the best place for swimming. Fortunately, it is out of season and the few diehards there made no objection to our clinging to our modesty. Then, on another, fresher, day, we took a hike in the mountains and got a panoramic view of the region, including the river Ebro and its delta.

          But, for everyday exercise, I’ve been stretching my legs for an hour or so along the access road that serves the tracks leading off to the individual fincas. It is here that I noticed a striking resemblance to the UK, not in the flora but in the amount of litter scattered amongst it. Yes, even on this land dedicated to agriculture, the drive-by tossing of beer cans and fag packets is commonplace and a walk along the lanes without a collection bag is a wasted opportunity to clean up and feel indignant.

          Otherwise, I have taken every opportunity of a lift into town, most frequently to Tortosa (population 33,000), where there is a museum of local history housed in a surprisingly handsome and ornate collection of buildings that once had been the region’s main slaughterhouse. There I discovered more about this seemingly sleepy region, particularly what happened during the civil war. In 1938 the German Luftwaffe did General Franco the favour of dropping 54 tons of bombs on Tortosa, intending to destroy its three bridges over the Ebro and thwart the Republican forces. The fascists prevailed and subsequently erected a monstrous victory-commemorating structure on a pier in the river. It looms over the city even now, a subject of controversy.

          The next day, in our local village, we bumped into the yoga teacher. I immediately straightened my posture and tried to look loose-limbed. She probably was not fooled, but she smiled and greeted us warmly. We’ll be leaving for home soon, but we have an opportunity to go to one more yoga lesson. I’ve put my name down. This time, I might even brave a discreet “ommmm”.