The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”
—ROBERT FROST
As a hobby gardener I’m always on the lookout for any small plot of land that a gardener has lovingly transformed into his or her own creation to grow crops or flowers. So far, we’ve seen plenty of commercial operations. From olive trees as far as the eyes can see to grapes growing like trees without any stake or wires to suspend them to apple trees staked to grow vineyard like.
But nothing prepared me for the garden next to the hotel Cal Petit. There’s always a backstory to most anything. You just have to dig a little deeper to find out what it is. The backstory of this garden is that Pedro, originally from Moldova planted it all. On this walk I left my iPhone so I don’t have pictures to share.
Moldova is an Eastern European country and a former Soviet republic. The official language of Moldova is Romanian. Its wine country regions are known throughout Europe for its reds.
Pedro saw me walking around on the upward slopes looking down at him and his garden. He motioned to me from a distance to come see his garden up close. Soon I had a cup of that famous homemade Moldova red wine in my hand.
Pedro then cut up several freshly picked tomatoes. Next he broke open a bag of small pretzels. Once the black and white mouser heard the crinkling sound she came over to him, placed a paw on his leg and begged for a pretzel treat. Pedro gave her one. She was now satisfied and continued looking around for mice.
A plot of land is not complete without chickens, ducks, a few mousers, an orchard, some vegetables, a working kitchen, a pizza oven and perhaps a wine cellar. Pedro has all of it in about an acre of space. Who could ask for anything more. The water flows from the mountains high above and down a small creek which he has diverted into a cement moat around most of his property. It next flows into a drainage ditch and onto other fields across the highway.
I said to him that my life’s story isn’t quite nearly as interesting as yours. Somewhere in the conversation I recall him saying that Spanish people understand that first you live, and then you die.
He said that its the same the world over. If people didn’t die, then our world would be an awfully crowded place.
Pedro is great with math but, he said that he didn’t pay much attention to geography in school. He didn’t know where California was on a map and I sure as hell couldn’t pick Moldova on a map to save my life.
His impression of America is that we’re all big and fat. He imitated someone who had consumed too many McDonalds he said. Next we compared our ages. I’m three years older. He was surprised that I was older. He complimented me on my stature and youthful appearance. I complimented him on all that he had accomplished since arriving in Spain over twenty years ago.
It must be the motorcycle ride. The ride provides us with the healing power of nature. We ride, we eat healthy foods and sometimes we also drink excessively.
We breathe in the fresh country or mountain air. Daily we’ve been exercising our mind, body and soul. Today is day six and the vast amount of twisties on the Pyrenees of Spain left me wasted. Who could ask for anything more.
“We’re just like my compost, he said.” He walks me over to a section where he enriches his soil with manure from farm animals. Pedro had it covered with a heavier black plastic blanket. He said all he did was to keep adding mountain spring water to keep the living critters working to enrich the soil. He said, and sometimes the soil needs to rest.
TODAY: And now that I’m well fed from the best tastiest steak and potatoes that I can ever recall eating; it’s dessert time. I ordered the egg flan that comes with three large dabs of homemade whipped cream. A beer in a near frozen mug topped off the meal.
After the meal I go for a walk in the easy rain.
LAST NIGHT: The Hotel and Restaurant next door where we are staying is the Can Cruells in Girona Spain.
The trophy room above is where all of us dined. The owner is a racer and this place qualifies as a motorcycle hotel.
Today we ride from Oliana to Planoles. A distance of what appears on the surface to be just a 84 miles. Yet this is very deceptive. It took us from 0830 until 4 pm with one gas stop to get here. I banked that bike on roads so twisted that my arms now ache.
Suddenly I saw myself fixating on the larger than life European cement delivery like truck heading right at me. I came out of a turn and recovered for the next one but, instead found myself taking up more of the road than I had in all my previous turns. Somehow I now willed my handlebars body away from the truck while twisting the throttle. It worked fine. I now recall Pedro’s words of him saying that first you live, and then you die. Someday it’ll be my turn to do so, but not today, tomorrow or in this Spain trip.
Everybody is going to be dead one day, just give them time.
I’m the one that’s got to die when it’s time for me to die, so let me live my life the way I want to. – Jimi Hendrix, a famous guitarist
End
Trawlercat Chronicles 