The Guardian on Spain

There's a Spain special on the Guardian website at the moment (also in print in the Travel section for anyone who's not done their recycling yet), featuring some interesting pieces about the lesser-discovered corners of this huge and diverse country.

Have a look at the insiders guide to northern Spain. You might recognise one of the contributors...

Gone West

The day we killed a pig

I awake as if it were any other morning, to the sound of speckled rain on the caravan roof, and a cloak of mist shrouding the basin of Valle de Castaños. The atmosphere is cold and heavy, thick with subdued energy.

As we drive up the steep track, out of the valley, the sky begins to clear. Clouds part above us, almost as if they're making way for the two accomplices to the events that would unfold, later that morning...

It's the tail end of pig killing 'season', which takes place from late Autumn until Carnival, the week before Lent. In the past, almost all rural families would have kept a house pig, supplementing it's grazing on the land with kitchen scraps and other dregs - a kind of gardener-cum-waste disposal unit. Come 11th November, a feast day in honour of St Martin, the pigs would have been duly fattened, and ready to lay down their lives for the benefit of their owner's sustenance over the long, hard winter. After having been salted, cured, smoked and preserved, the yield from one pig would keep a family going for a whole year.

The traditions of November 11th have given way to a popular saying in Spain, "A cada cerdo le llega su San Martín" – “Every pig has it's St Martin's Day”. Andreas has been given a pig by a friend... And today is that pig's St Martin's Day.

We arrive at our destination. A collection of houses on a bleak patch of land, where the mountains plato, 800 metres above sea level. The remnants of snow lay underfoot, and there's a bitter chill in the air, the kind that makes you shudder like a skeleton's rasping it's knuckles up your spinal chord.

We stand huddled in the shed to one side of the yard, where a pot of water has been set to boil on an open fire. One of the men gathers together buckets and towels, whilst another stirs a tin pan, half-full with a murky liquid that looks like potato scraps boiled in muddy water. I hope to myself that this isn't the pig's last supper, or worse still, our pre-sacrificio snack. The tallest of the men, the matador, who will carry out the killing, flits between the fire and his collection of freshly sharpened knives. As a forth man barks something at me in his thick, Austurian accent, I nod and smile, trying my best to hide the nerves that have taken hold of my stomach. As everyone busies themselves around the yard, I suspect I'm not the only one who is feeling just a little uneasy.

Probably ten minutes pass... I'm not sure if final preparations were being made for the killing, if we were waiting for the frozen rain to pass, or if it was simply to allow time for everyone to drink an extra cupful of wine. An elderly man strolls over from one of the houses across the road. He looks well into his seventies, if not older, but his eyes are bright, and he walks tall and broad. The kind of man I imagine to have taken part in events like these hundreds of times before. He looks over the yard, and says something to the matador in a tone that asks "well, are you going to do it or not?"

The next thing I know, the matador is inside the pig pen, whilst the rest of us are huddling around the gate. I've been handed the end of a rope and instructed to hold on tight. It takes probably 20 seconds for the matador to get hold of one of the pigs, but with the high-pitched squealing and fear-fuelled instinct that makes the animals literally run for their lives, it seem like far longer. After a short struggle, the unfortunate beast is dragged out of the pen by a noose around it's snout - something which in itself must be excruciatingly painful. As the pig is pulled into the centre of the courtyard it lets out a blood-curdlingly expressive screech; less a squeal, more a scream of terror.

Three of us take the strain of the noose at the snout and ropes at the rear, whilst the matador grabs his knife. It's a long, vicious looking tool; tough and rigid, the blade and handle carved from a single piece of metal. As he stands over the pig, the screaming stops. Pigs are intelligent beasts, and it would appear that this one knows it's fate. In a single movement, the matador plunges the knife deep into the throat, going through the gullet and down to the heart. Another shriek This time agony rather than fear. The ropes tighten in our hands as the pig bucks and kicks, eventually flipping itself almost a metre into the air. With one last violent spasm, it drops to it's side, hitting the ground with an audible thud. Blood seeps from it's neck turning the green grass a muddy red. The twitching stops and the pig lies still. Finally, it is dead. The whole process lasted around a minute.

We haul the pig into a long shallow bath, where it will be cleaned and prepared for butchering. We have to work quickly now, as this must be done whilst the body is still warm and rigor mortis has yet to set in. As one man pours boiling water over the body, we each take a knife and begin shaving off the thick hairs that adorn it's skin. At first I'm almost hesitant to touch it. I kneel down and grab it's thigh. It's warm, pink and fleshy, almost disturbingly similar to that of a human. But with each stroke of the knife, turned flat against the contours of it's body, I begin to consider it less as an animal, and more as the piece of meat that it will become.

With blood still dripping from the gaping hole in it's neck, we winch the pig up so it's hanging from the rafters. The knot slips, and the animal falls back to the floor. I feel myself wincing, almost upset by the lapse of dignity that this hulk of flesh has been subjected to. I have heard about this being done using tractors, fork-lifts, or other machinery, but where we've gone is back to basics; rope and man power are all that's to hand. 

Finally, the pig is risen to the height of one of the beams, legs akimbo, ready to be cut open. The matador takes his knife and scores the flesh from the anus to the rib cage. With utmost care, he teases out the intestines and stomach. One slip of the knife, and we would all be covered in whatever the pig had eaten for dinner. Once the delicate work is done, he places an axe on the sternum, and using a hammer, splits the ribcage in two, one blow at a time. With the heart, lungs, liver and kidneys neatly away, he yanks the wind pipe clean out. He turns to Andreas, knife in one bloodied hand, fleshy, pink-grey tube in the other, offering up the innards as a final piece of bounty... "Para los peros" is Andreas' response; We already have more than enough offal to contend with.

The matador slings the wind pipe to the dogs, rubs his hands clean with a towel, and begins walking away from the scene, to house on the other side of the road. His work here is done.

We gather in the small kitchen, leaning against the walls and work surfaces as platers of jamon, fried chorizo and cheese are laid out on the table. There is only one chair in the room and only the matador is sitting. There are no cutlery or plates - the men use their own pocket knives to pick up the food, and pieces of bread to catch any juices. As everyone eats their meat, cheese and bread, drinking wine, and sharing the occasional chuckle, the atmosphere begins to flatten. It's only two o'clock, but it feels like we've packed a lot into our morning. There's a lull in conversation. The matador drains his cup of wine, flips his knife blade back into the handle, and stands. "Bueno," he says, in a tone that implies right, that's enough, as opposed to OK, good, as it's usually used, and walks out of the kitchen. That's the end of that.

***

So now I've taken part in the killing of a pig. A powerful and at times disturbing experience. Official legislation states that a stun-gun should be used to render the animal unconscious, so it can then be bled to death. But the method used here is one that hasn't changed for centuries... It wasn't sacrificial, or celebratory, but there was a certain sense of ritual. Ritual that has been passed down through generations. Ritual that, for right or wrong, is quickly dying out.

Could the killing have been faster, more dignified, less painful? I suspect so, yes. But at least the suffering was preceded by a decent life. It's diet was varied. It had the company of other animals. A sheltered pen, and a yard to roam in. When you compare it's existence to that of an intensively-reared, industrial pig, which may be slaughtered under conditions that meet the terms of official good practice, but have spent their lives living in a pen so small they can't even turn around, there is a lot to be said for tradition. A minute of fear and pain versus a lifetime of miserable discomfort...

***

The following day, feeling just a little sore-headed after having spent the entirety of the previous day drinking, we set about butchering the carcass and preserving the meat. Andreas has turned the table in his workshop into a temporary butcher's block, and enlisted the help of two friends from the village. Neither are professionally trained, but they get to work quickly, cleanly and efficiently, showing expertise as they split and joint the carcass. The shoulders, thighs, ribs, belly, bacon, trotters and head are trimmed and prepared for salting, whilst the off-cuts are minced - along with a healthy dose of fat - in order to make chorizo. There's a lot of work, but with four pairs of hands, the task is complete by lunchtime.

Sat in a circle in the kitchen, we tuck into slices of mouth-wateringly tender lomo - the back fillet - marinated in lots of garlic and oil, and cooked over the open fire. The butchers refuse my offer of cutlery and plates, using only their own pocket knives to cut chunks of bread off the loaf, and skewer each piece of meat. Another carnivorous feast, eaten with primal machismo.

After lunch, we salt the meat in an old cast-iron bath, and make the chorizo mix by adding garlic, parsley, salt and lots of both sweet and hot paprika to the mince. Once again, the day has been lubricated with lots of local wine, and by five o'clock, with the work done, I'm glad of a rest in the courtyard. I sit and contemplate the previous day's events, whilst taking in the last of the afternoon sun.

Offal is on the menu for dinner, and while Andreas cooks up a thick, northern Europen-style stew made from the kidneys, liver and lungs, I slice the heart thinly and marinade it in garlic, thyme, and oil, as I had done with the ox heart at St John. This will be our starter, along with the pig's brains, pan-fried and served with lots of bread. By the time it gets to the stew, I'm almost full, but make my way through a bowlful, despite the floppy texture of the lung making me feel slightly queasy. As I mop up the remaining juices, Andreas immediately offers me another ladle full. For the first time during my stay at Valle de Castaños, I don't really fancy seconds. After two days of pig, the whole pig, and nothing but the pig, for now at least, I've finally had enough.

Isolation in Austurias

I've just returned to civilisation following two weeks in the wilderness of western Austurias. I was staying on a remote finca, called Valle de Castaños, hidden at the bottom of a deep valley in the foothills of the mountains that span the province. My hosts were a small family pursuing an alternative lifestyle with a strong focus on environmental sustainability – their commitment to which was both admirable and inspirational.

It was an experience in which I went back to basics, in almost every imaginable way; forget the telephone and internet, no need for modern appliances, and nothing by way of 'home comforts' that most Western households are used to. Fourteen days with almost no indication of the outside world, let alone the opportunity to communicate with it. Water came from the mountain spring, electricity - enough for a 12 Watt bulb in the kitchen - from a solar panel, and dinner was cooked on an open fire in the corner of the kitchen.

By day, we tended to the animals, chipped away at the seemingly endless list of odd jobs around the farm, and worked the steep terraced fields, which stretched further than the eye could see on either side of the valley. By night we sat exhausted in the kitchen, huddled around the fire for warmth.

The following post includes edited extracts from the diary I kept during my time at Valle de Castaños, which I wrote each evening by candlelight, sat in my caravan 350 paces up the mountainside from the farmhouse itself. Out of respect for the privacy of my hosts, I've changed the names of all the people and places mentioned here.

9th February, 2010

We arrive at the Valle de Castaños after driving for one and half hours through some of the most incredibly rugged scenery I've ever come across. We twist and turn through a winding pass, 1000 metres above sea-level. Mountains rise to infinitum on one side and drop away to nothing on the other. We take a sharp left, and head what seems like straight up the mountain side... By now the asphalt has stopped, and the 'road' is made of loose gravel. After about three kilometres, we reach a summit with breath-taking views on either side of the valley below. We stop the car, and begin transferring our bags into the 4x4 truck that is parked at the side of the road. A dirt track will take us down to the farm, and whilst the battered old tin can we've driven from the coast may make it down the hill, it doesn't look as if it make it back up again. With my hosts, Andreas, Carmen and their baby, sat in the cab, I take my place on the flat bed trunk, and hold on tight. It's a long way down.

Just as twilight turns into darkness, we reach the farm, which is in fact a semi-ruined village, dating back at least five hundred years, although there has probably been a settlement on that site for far longer. There are a handful of buildings; an ancient water mill sat on a bend in the river, a tiny chapel sat a little way up the valley, and a small number of neat, grey stone cottages. Some of these are entirely in ruins, whilst the others are inhabited by Andreas, Carmen, their baby, and their guests.

The temperature has dropped dramatically with nightfall, and we head into what looks like the largest of the cottages, which makes up the kitchen-cum-parlor-cum-living space. It's built straight into the hillside, with the foundations made of bedrock, and the walls made from the same slate as the mountains. Save from the dim glow of a single electric light bulb, there has been no modernisation in the building whatsoever. What looks like the original hard wood doors hang in the doorways, bare slate and clay are the only insulation on the walls, and there's not even a chimney built above the fire - smoke simply rises into the rafters, helping to preserve the pieces of pork that are slowly curing there, and the wooden beams from which they are hanging. The furniture and fittings are all handmade from the chestnut trees in the valley, whilst the shelves are lined with a hotch-potch of jugs, jars and containers, as charming as they are old. I look upon this characterful little room, and imagine it having not changed for hundreds of years.

I sit facing the fire with Edith, another of Andreas' guests on the farm. We talk about Valle de Castaños, my first impressions, and her experiences so far. I've still not quite come to terms with what I have walked into... A completely different way of life.

10th February 2010

I awake with the morning, to the sound of swaying trees, tweeting birds, and the bubbling river. It dropped to freezing last night but my caravan gave me shelter at least, with warmth coming from a hot water bottle, a sleeping bag and four blankets.

After a day of trudging up and down the mountain sides, clearing wood and patching up the dry stone walls, dinner feels like a god-send. We sit around the fire, eating hot chickpea and potato soup, almost too tired to speak.

11th February 2010

It feels like we've walked a marathon today, up and down the mountain sides. We return from being snowed on in the fields to a late lunch in the courtyard. We eat a salad of wild herbs, followed by delicious chorizo spaghetti, all whilst basking in the soft February sunlight.

12th February 2010

We trek to a plato, high up on the other side of the valley to tend to the chestnut trees. Andreas comes across a dazzingly bright red fungi on the way...and eventually decides it looks too good to eat! There's a brisk north-easterly wind, which brings millions of tiny frozen rain drops - Mother Nature's way of telling us that what ever we do, she is in complete control. I realise that living here means a different way of life entirely. We exist not by living off the land. To survive in the long term, we have to live with it.

13th February 2010

My back aches, my legs are like jelly, my shoulders are sore, my feet are wet, my lips are dry, and my hands are covered in cuts and grazes. We use each day to the full, spending every possible hour trying our best to make an indent on the seemingly never-ending list of half finished - or half started, to be more accurate - jobs around the farm. Just living here is a full time job - demanding physical labour. Yet the connection that I feel to this new way of life means that to opt out of work is not even something I consider.

We all carry out our tasks tirelessly around the farm. Whilst Andreas and I prepare a new enclosure for the donkeys and horse to graze, Carmen tends to the gardens, re-cultivating the land as it has been for generations before. She has also found time to make lunch for the weary workers - a bright and vibrant salad of pomegranate, carrot and apple, dressed with vinegar and sesame seeds. It's followed by a nourishing vegetable stew. After that, it's straight back to work... Stay still for too long, and you begin to feel the cold right through to your bones.

14th February 2010

Sunday. The day of rest. Or not, as the case may be. I'm working before breakfast, shifting chestnut rafters from one side of the valley to the other. Meal times come as a welcome break. We always eat very well here, but food can seem as much a necessity as it is a pleasure, taken either to refuel, or keep warm, or both. When the evening comes, we all finally relax. First, we eat salad, which includes stems of a curious-looking plant who's name translates to "Venus' belly button". After that, we tuck into a comforting chorizo and lentil stew, and finally dutch pancakes, filled with sliced banana and melted dark chocolate.

With the stove having heated sufficient water in the over-head tank, I finish the day with a shower. It's my first in six days. With that, and a good feed inside me, I have everything I could have hoped for this Sunday.

15th February 2010

A day spent shovelling cart-loads of donkey shit from the stable on one side of the valley, to the gardens on the other. A conversation with Carmen about life in Hackney. A discussion with Andreas about the rights of volunteer workers. A single text message sent to the outside world (there wasn't enough reception to call). My turn to make dinner - nettle risotto, and a salad picked from the hedgerows. Another unfathomably starry sky. Another sub-zero night in the caravan, which by now is beginning to feel just like home. Perhaps I'm getting into the swing of life in the Valle de Castaños.

16th February

I've decided to stay a few more days... To be here is both physically and mentally rewarding, and I'm enjoying the slower rhythm of life.

For lunch I use the left over risotto to make arancini de riso, or cheesy balls, as we call them. After lunch, the conversation once again turns to food, and I get the impression that both Andreas and Carmen are slightly puzzled by my obsession.

17th February 2010

My designated day off. Andreas and Carmen have gone to the coast to see friends and have instructed me to take it easy. I get going at my leisure, having the same breakfast as usual, boiled oats with fruit, but taking my time with two cups of coffee today, instead of one. I spend the day pottering in the gardens, and make a frugal soup for dinner from any of the veg I come across that looks to be on it's last legs. But when my hosts return, Andreas has other ideas... He has with him a whole chicken, which we cut into pieces and cook over the open fire. To accompany it, we fry potatoes in lots of pig fat, and eat the whole lot slathered in mayonnaise. I take it as a rather touching gesture of thanks for my hard work thus far, and dutifully chomp my way through second helpings, and then the remaining potatoes that are left in the frying pan.

18th February 2010

An afternoon carrying chestnut floorboards from the workshop, high on one side of the valley, to one of the houses on the other. When the job is complete, we relax in the courtyard, our exhaustion balanced by the sense of accomplishment that only a day of truly hard work can bring. Andreas and I toast each other's health with a well earned beer, working our way down the bottles as the sun dips below the mountain.

At dinner there is much talk of the following day's events. Tomorrow we are going to kill a pig...

In the wilderness

My home from home for the moment... The Valle de Castaños, a remote farm in the mountains of northern Spain. 

Heaven is a grill house in Gijon

I've just arrived in Gijon, my next port of call along the northern Iberian coast. Although slightly ramshackle around the edges, it's a sturdy looking sort of place; squat and sprawling. The old town and harbour are placed strategically on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the bay, with a long, sweeping playa to one side, and very industrial port stretching for what must be miles to the other.

The city is renowned for it's sidrerias, but as well as the cider, the city's other specialities are the slightly scary-looking ericios (sea urchins) and zamburiñas (little scallops), which are often served with a spicy tomato sauce. I dump my bags and head off in search of a seafood dinner.

By now it's getting late on Sunday... Nothing around the harbour is open, and the fancier places in the main square are a bit beyond my budget. Considering my options, I turn on my heel and head back the way I came, feeling slightly dejected. Until my nose pricks up, that is - there's nothing quite like the smell of sizzling animal flesh to lift the spirits.

Las Brasas - The Grills - is a no frills kind of joint, the equivalent of a greasy spoon back home. The menu is scribbled on plain white paper, one dish per sheet, and Blue-tacked to the wall as you walk in. The sports pages of the Sunday papers are strewn across the high benches near the bar. The table cloths are made of tissue paper. And there's plastic fruit in the fruit bowl. But none of that matters. What matters is the massive grill, filling a whole corner of the room, and the huge array of meat that's taking pride of place upon it.

Behind the counter, the big guy takes the orders and flips the meat, while his wife runs the plates and sets fire to her frying pans at the back with alarming regularity. Still, she's busy back there... Dishes at Las Brasas are either served with fried eggs, patatas fritas, patatas (also fried, just left in potato shape, as opposed to be being cut into chip shape), or, slightly bizarrely, all three... Do you really need chips and fried potatoes?

So far, so greasy, I hear you say - and you would be right - but the meat is definitely a cut above your average car park caff. Huge racks of ribs, plump lomo sausages, juicy looking chuleta, and some of the biggest morcilla I've seen. But aside from the meat, it's the array of people that really sets Las Brasas apart from similar places at home. A group of five pensioners who look as though they've been there for hours chat over the remains of their meal. A family with teenage kids share anecdotes, laughter and desserts by the window. Three men sit at the bar, their attention split equally between the football match on the TV, and the eye-poppingly large mixed grill in front of them. Two well-turned out young children tuck into platefuls of chops as their (very) yummy mummy looks on, adoringly. Two men as wide as they are tall get their protein fix in the corner, tearing the flesh off chicken legs with their teeth. Suddenly, with my huevos con chorizo, I begin to feel slightly inadequate.

By the time I'm done, it's passed half eleven, and whilst the two little kids may still have bags of energy, I'm spent. Just as I'm getting up to leave, the yummy mummy gives a kind of nod-wink-wave gesture in my direction, and what could only be described as a pouting smile. Perhaps my luck really has changed, I think. The pension I'm booked into is pretty shoddy anyway, and hey, I don't have a problem with Spanish kids.

I draw breath and cue up my best sophisticated-Englishman-speaking-Spanish accent. Her eyes widen... Ok, here goes... And then the big guy steps out from right behind me with a huge block of blue cheese, and plonks it on the table in front of them. She grins a Penelope-Cruz-at-the-Oscars kind of grin, and thanks him, as the kids immediately dive in.

A lamb chop and a cheese plate... Now that's my kind of mamma. Ah well... I reckon it's time for me to go home.