The Come-Back, Day 24. A Drive and a Search
The weather is changing. It's no longer as hot, but it's thunderstormy weather, so the sun feels like it's going to grab your throat and choke you. Absolutely not the kind of weather it's nice to go out and about wearing a mask.
Yet, yesterday afternoon, my daughter and I did so. We set off on a ride of close to an hour, to Cee. My husband asked me to take a rod to a certain tackle shop to have it fixed. Since I now have so much free time, I had no problem.
My daughter and I didn't wear the mask in the car as we drove, windows down, along country roads and through small towns and villages. We hadn't gone along those roads in over a year, I think. Thunderclouds were growing inland, and the sky was hazy, but the wind blowing into the car made driving agreeable.
Once we got to Cee, though, I put on the mask as soon as I got out of the car. I felt like I was breathing in hot vapor. While we didn't cross paths with anyone on the sidewalk, I pulled it down to breathe. But, in the store, a small place whose only air conditioning was the open door, I had to have it on. I was not happy while we were in Cee.
After the rod was fixed, we got back in the car and I followed Google maps to a tiny village. As usual, to get there, it first took me through the winding, narrow lane that led through other tiny villages. At one point, I thought the lane was much too narrow for the car, but I got through. I hadn't chosen the first choice Google had shown me, because I wanted to drive by the sea for a bit, first. With Google, it's a good idea to take the first choice.
The village was on a high plateau with rolling farmland, mostly corn fields newly planted, with a few trees dividing some fields, and woods in the distance. The name of the village was Xendil.
Genealogical purposes made me discover it. Our family on my father's side is known as the Xendilos. We had always known that our family first came to the township of Rianxo from a village near Muros. A cousin of mine, while working one day, happened on the village, which had the same moniker as the family. So, the obvious deduction is that that is our ancestral village, from where an ancestor left, sometime in the eighteenth century, for Rianxo.
The village itself is tiny. There were a couple of houses that might have had their origins over two hundred years ago, but there was plenty of new construction, especially cow sheds. Up there, in the township of Mazaricos, is cow country. The smell of fresh manure invades just about everything.
We continued down the road to Serra de Outes, and, about a kilometer away, found the
parish church, San Miguel de Valladares. It's a tiny church, Romanesque, with a small churchyard. We went in, but only found a couple of mentions of my family surname on the tombstones. If the ancestor held that name, few, very distant, cousins remain in the area. The older, ground burials were different from the ones in our surrounding parishes. Most had silk flowers stabbed into the ground, surrounding the tombstone. One, in particular, had scallop shells all around it.
By the time we had finished looking around, it was seven, and, though there were well over a couple of hours of daylight left, we drove straight home from there. The worst part of the trip was in the town of Cee. The best was the drive and the discovery of the ancestral village and church. Maybe, some day, either my daughter or I will have the time to return to the records of the archdiocese, to try to find the travelling ancestor. When the virus is beaten, and we don't have to wear masks anymore, I suppose.
Life continues.
Yet, yesterday afternoon, my daughter and I did so. We set off on a ride of close to an hour, to Cee. My husband asked me to take a rod to a certain tackle shop to have it fixed. Since I now have so much free time, I had no problem.
My daughter and I didn't wear the mask in the car as we drove, windows down, along country roads and through small towns and villages. We hadn't gone along those roads in over a year, I think. Thunderclouds were growing inland, and the sky was hazy, but the wind blowing into the car made driving agreeable.
Once we got to Cee, though, I put on the mask as soon as I got out of the car. I felt like I was breathing in hot vapor. While we didn't cross paths with anyone on the sidewalk, I pulled it down to breathe. But, in the store, a small place whose only air conditioning was the open door, I had to have it on. I was not happy while we were in Cee.
After the rod was fixed, we got back in the car and I followed Google maps to a tiny village. As usual, to get there, it first took me through the winding, narrow lane that led through other tiny villages. At one point, I thought the lane was much too narrow for the car, but I got through. I hadn't chosen the first choice Google had shown me, because I wanted to drive by the sea for a bit, first. With Google, it's a good idea to take the first choice.
The village was on a high plateau with rolling farmland, mostly corn fields newly planted, with a few trees dividing some fields, and woods in the distance. The name of the village was Xendil.
Genealogical purposes made me discover it. Our family on my father's side is known as the Xendilos. We had always known that our family first came to the township of Rianxo from a village near Muros. A cousin of mine, while working one day, happened on the village, which had the same moniker as the family. So, the obvious deduction is that that is our ancestral village, from where an ancestor left, sometime in the eighteenth century, for Rianxo.
The village itself is tiny. There were a couple of houses that might have had their origins over two hundred years ago, but there was plenty of new construction, especially cow sheds. Up there, in the township of Mazaricos, is cow country. The smell of fresh manure invades just about everything.
We continued down the road to Serra de Outes, and, about a kilometer away, found the parish church, San Miguel de Valladares. It's a tiny church, Romanesque, with a small churchyard. We went in, but only found a couple of mentions of my family surname on the tombstones. If the ancestor held that name, few, very distant, cousins remain in the area. The older, ground burials were different from the ones in our surrounding parishes. Most had silk flowers stabbed into the ground, surrounding the tombstone. One, in particular, had scallop shells all around it.
By the time we had finished looking around, it was seven, and, though there were well over a couple of hours of daylight left, we drove straight home from there. The worst part of the trip was in the town of Cee. The best was the drive and the discovery of the ancestral village and church. Maybe, some day, either my daughter or I will have the time to return to the records of the archdiocese, to try to find the travelling ancestor. When the virus is beaten, and we don't have to wear masks anymore, I suppose.
Life continues.
Sempre é bo coñecer as nosas raíces.
ReplyDeleteDan para unha boa novela.
Si!
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