Spanish views from a small town

It's June, the best month of the year. The days are the longest, the weather should be the finest, and everything is just right. Almost. As I turned the calendar page this morning, I saw that I had marked from the 22nd to the 30th as my summer vacation.  I buy my calendar every year from a publishing company in Massachusetts. Ever since I visited Boston in 2005, and bought the following year's calendar with pictures of Boston, I have been buying by mail either a Massachusetts, Boston, or New England calendar. When it arrives, I go marking the holidays we have with a red marker. It's not confusing, because the calendar only uses black ink, even for Sundays. I also write in dates that I know of in advance, such as the local festival, and my vacations, which follow the school holidays.  This year, it doesn't matter that I marked it. I truly counted my chickens before they've been hatched, this time. I've been on holiday since mid-March, except for an hour or ...

They're here. The longest days of the year, the days I've been awaiting since dark, despairing December, have arrived. Though we have not had a run of completely nice days without any rain, we have had a couple with summery temperatures and cloudless skies. Days that are the tantalizing taste of the wine of summer. Days that intoxicate you and make you believe the best is yet to come.  In the morning, by six o'clock the night has disappeared, and the sky gets ready to greet the sun. The birds wake up, and so do my cats, who come to see why I'm still in bed. By the time I get up, the morning chill has started to disappear and the sun is surprisingly warm when I step outside. Sometimes the smell of cut grass greets me when a neighbor has been clearing a field.  In the afternoon the day lingers long, the sun refusing to go to rest. Because we are so far west, yet follow Central European Time, evenings are forever. At eleven thirty we can still see lighter blue in the s...