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Even More Medieval Caceres


Cold seems to be relative. The way you experience it depends on...well depends on more than your jacket. A relative you know is coming to stay, but can't seem to say no to.

I bloody hate the cold.

Could be an entire childhood faced with frozen hair on dark mornings that lasted forever and then ended so quickly when released from school. Nightmares of tongues stuck to enticingly frosted metal pipes with impatient fathers coming to the supposed rescue with burning bic lighters. Back spasms at the thought of shoveling the snow all evening only to wake up and do it again...and again and again. Pain, actual pain as you remember stepping outside and hearing the crispy crunch of very cold weather snow that is completely devoid of any noticeable humidity...knowing that the exposed skin on your face was silently making that same noise.

I complain about the cold.

Indignant CacereƱos scoff as I grumble about the dipping thermometer as it travels towards zero. Instinct brings hidden memories back to the surface as the light gets weaker and the Christmas decorations get dusted off once again. OK - it's not as cold, but neither is my freezer and I only go in there for ice cubes.

A chilly night in Caceres, the Medieval Fair that wasn't suppose to be winds down and those that are left huddle closer to the roasting ovens and seek warmth in Galician hootch.

Relax I'm told...it only lasts 3 months, and even then the really bad days can be counted on one hand.

But my hands are covered in gloves and my bike ride tomorrow morning is going to bring back more 'fond' memories. At least my nose won't freeze shut.

At times I secretly hope that the climate change deniers are wrong, but my hope is for the wrong reasons.

Wake me up when it's spring.

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