'in the Kingdom of Spain, there are such colours'

Yesterday, we went on a bit of an adventure to the desert, which was not at all a desert this year for having had so much rain. Los Monegros, usually all yellow and brown, was relatively green and full of shrubs ('A shrubbery!') and all manner of arid little plants. First, we stopped at a winery.

Now, I love wine and all, especially organically-grown Spanish wine that I can purchase on the vicinities after tasting, but I don't love changing environments... Mica made a point in discussion to-day about how beautiful the vineyards looked, and we saw only some,

but that the natural landscape that had existed beforehand must have been much more beautiful. One neat thing, though, are the rosebushes.

Those are there to tell early signs of disease and allow for about two weeks of preparation before the disease would hit the vines. Interesting as though that was, unfortunately these vineyards use a tonne of irrigation, which makes me much my mouth to the side in that undecided, disapproving way that I have.

The facilities themselves were beautiful--only eight years old--and the woman who was our guide was enthusiastic and charismatic. All in all, this place had their marketing down pat, and I was reminded, Mommy, of MFA. From the video on their wine production (quite industrialised, and not at all, it seemed, connected with love for the vines) that we watched to the explanation of this and that in the new facilities that they built only 8 years ago, everything did seem a bit staged and planned. The first barrels were on display

(using oak doesn't really make any difference, and has no place in tradition wine making, but apparently some snobby wine critic has made everyone think them necessary) and we could look into the cellars and private little crypts/tombs/I think that she was just making a point with this name.

Quotes were placed on the brick walls, representative art of the nine levels of wine (from bottom to top: roots, soil, vine/grapes, labour, barrel, time, bottle, glass, people), but everything looked almost too perfect.

All of the labels on the bottles were painted by local artists especially for the occasion, and there is a gallery of all the originals. There is even a room with little plastic cylinders and a circle within them that you twist to smell a note of the wine next to it.

I liked the outdoors, better, though.

I would have much preferred a hectare of vineyard in an individual's backyard, with dark, old facilities and a smiling, toothless wine master. The wine was terrific, and we tasted one of the wines that won some award for being among the best ten in the world at some (probably pretentious) French festival.

We then drove to a small town to see its cathedral. I wish that I could remember an of these names... I enjoyed the little guided tour from the old father that we received. He spoke some English, but said that his Spanish was (obviously) better. What with the fact that I'm quite intelligent and was raised Irish Catholic (and thus aspired to commit to memory so many random facts of the religion) and my Spanish capabilities--which are quite good as far as reading and listening comprehension are concerned, but not with speaking--I was able to understand about eighty per cent of what he said. I liked the palm tree pillars with their roses at the junctions. I felt like I was in a jungle of a church.

We then walked around the town

before a fantastic lunch at a small hotel. I had vichyssoise (quadruple portion! I couldn't finish it, though it tasted like clam chowder and was so delicious) and arroz a la cubana, which came with tomato sauce and a fried egg, which I cut up and mixed all in. Unfortunately, the local wine was not good. It lacked the balance of acidity that inhibits the intense alcohol first note, and I thought that it was far too acrid. I finished my small glass after making quite impolite faces with each sip.

Driving around the desert, then, on a sleepy siesta, we saw some of the landscape. Nana, you would have been just ecstatic over the bridges. Little villages appeared out of nowhere. I even saw a lake, which seemed odd for a second, and then I realised that I haven't seen any at all here. This, actually, is more likely a reservoir. We passed irrigated fields (note the sprinklers in some of the pictures) of corn that made my stomach turn. First, corn does not belong in such quantities in Spain. Second, all of this corn you see is for starving people. I mean that not in the sense that it is to be used to feed these starving people, but in the sense that its purpose is to starve people. It's animal feed, and I nearly blanched thinking about how many people could live off the amount of grain that even one cow eats in a day. So wasteful, so depressing.