impressions: Maroñas and Santa Marina

Walking through Maroñas. A young farmer passes me and throws some litter in a container. He yells at the neighbours. I don't understand a word of it. Minutes later I meet a woman. She stops and askes me something. Again: not a word. After a kilometer, at the bar in Santa Marina I'm the only guest under the vine tendrils. Galicia shows mercy and gives me a dry break outside. Quiet, some sparrows, a tractor running. I ask the barman about the language. They speak Gallego. It sounds darks, earthly, kind of Portuguese. And that's what it actually is.The people look a bit dark themselves. From where art thou?

Faithful land, again. Even the buxus (hedge) has been cut in a crossform. The church is weathered, has to stand a lot in this climate. The angels stare at me, saintly in a row.