Huh?
Landscape etiquette for tourists: Do not enter a wooded area to pick up what you think is abandoned firewood. That applies to all of Galicia.
I understand that on the wide moors of northern Castile if a property isn't surrounded by barbed wire or a fence of any kind, whatever is on it might not be of interest to the owner. Might. I wouldn't assume it, either. But in Galicia, where people have been killed over property markers, whatever wood you might find in a pile has a name on it, and the owner of the name and the wood is not far away.
This morning, I woke up groggily, nursing one of my morning headaches. While I tried to finish waking up in my kitchen with the blinds still closed, I heard a clop, clop, clop and my dog started to bark. At first I assumed it was one of my neighbors doing whatever, and that my dog had become overexcited, like he often does. But then the noise continued, and I became curious (sometimes I am very village-minded).
I opened the front door, ostensibly to bring in the loaf of bread the baker had left hanging there in its bag, and looked out and around to see what my neighbor was doing. It wasn't my neighbor. Across the road, a woman was standing in the ditch, and a man was standing next to a small pile of firewood we still had to put away, picking up sticks and banging them together to knock off sawdust and accumulated dirt. "Hello!" I called out.
The woman gestured to the man, and he looked at me. "Oh, I thought this wood was abandoned."
"No, it's ours. We just haven't finished putting it away, yet," I answered, smiling but extremely perplexed. Why would an obvious tourist want to take sticks of firewood home? A souvenir? Strange choice. I would have gone with a pine cone you can find on just about any path in the woods.
He threw the sticks back on the pile and walked to the road. "Oh, sorry! It just looked abandoned," in a perfect accent from northern Castile.
"Well, it's not."
And the two of them continued walking down the road.
Just another chronicle from the Confused Tourist chapter of Summer in Galicia.
I understand that on the wide moors of northern Castile if a property isn't surrounded by barbed wire or a fence of any kind, whatever is on it might not be of interest to the owner. Might. I wouldn't assume it, either. But in Galicia, where people have been killed over property markers, whatever wood you might find in a pile has a name on it, and the owner of the name and the wood is not far away.
This morning, I woke up groggily, nursing one of my morning headaches. While I tried to finish waking up in my kitchen with the blinds still closed, I heard a clop, clop, clop and my dog started to bark. At first I assumed it was one of my neighbors doing whatever, and that my dog had become overexcited, like he often does. But then the noise continued, and I became curious (sometimes I am very village-minded).
I opened the front door, ostensibly to bring in the loaf of bread the baker had left hanging there in its bag, and looked out and around to see what my neighbor was doing. It wasn't my neighbor. Across the road, a woman was standing in the ditch, and a man was standing next to a small pile of firewood we still had to put away, picking up sticks and banging them together to knock off sawdust and accumulated dirt. "Hello!" I called out.
The woman gestured to the man, and he looked at me. "Oh, I thought this wood was abandoned."
"No, it's ours. We just haven't finished putting it away, yet," I answered, smiling but extremely perplexed. Why would an obvious tourist want to take sticks of firewood home? A souvenir? Strange choice. I would have gone with a pine cone you can find on just about any path in the woods.
He threw the sticks back on the pile and walked to the road. "Oh, sorry! It just looked abandoned," in a perfect accent from northern Castile.
"Well, it's not."
And the two of them continued walking down the road.
Just another chronicle from the Confused Tourist chapter of Summer in Galicia.
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