The village water supply

The village is in a state of turmopil over the water supply. Last year the town hall put in a new water supply causing havoc as they dug up the roads and laid the pipes. The new did not replace the old, which comes from a small reservoir on the hill: some people plugged themselves into it and maintained a tap with the old, some changed over completely, others stuck with the old and a few, especially those with cows, started using the new without fitting the compulsory meter.

Since the workmen made a mess of the roads in their efforst to lay the pipes, the town hall now wants to asphalt over the evidence of their sloppy workmanship. This will tidy things up but it will also mean that the old pipes will be impossible tog et to when they need repairing- a frequent occurrence since they are not buried deep enough to avoid frequent breakages when a heavy tractors pass over. This coinicides with the realisation that the water company is not so obtuse that it hasn't noticed the a disproportional use of water compared to the amount metered: the water thieves are going to have to pay for the new or sort out the old.

The issue divides the village. Those who use their houses at weekends and for holidays are content to pay for the new and forget the old because they are unlikely to reach the minimum metered anount and the charge is reasonable. Those with cows of course want to sort out the old supply but they want it to be a communal effort to defray some of the expense.

No one can agree on anything excapt perhaps that the best method of going about things is to have endless meetings where no one says what they mean until afterwards, when they huddle off into groups and make bitter imprecations against those who are slowing things down. You can't use the water for watering your garden or filling your swimming pool, they say. Well, go to hell then and don't count on my money. Ahh, so you won't help that means I won't help with the village fiesta. You wait and see, I'll be the first to say no to someone else's plans.

Will the old supply be saved? The clock is against it. When the council finally comes with the asphalt wagon, which is already parked at the junction like an unwieldy club of Damocles, the pipes have to have been moved. This makes it a race against time.

The village association

Rural depopulation is a continuing phenomenon in this area. We live in the south of the concejo of Grado in a small Asturian village called Villandás. Villandás has a couple of dozen houses and a couple of dozen residents at the weekend. During the week that number descends to scarcely ten- there are more cows than people.

Looking after cows is the major activity of the permanent residents in the village and they all agree that cows are a lot of work. You can't miss a day- they need to be taken out to pasture, given water to drink and milked at a regular hour. This affects the pattern of the day. You see people with their cows in the morning and the evening and if there is any social activity it will be set between different cowherding tasks.

It was appropriate, therefore, that the meeting of the village association should take place in front of a cowshed in the middle of the village. The men were gathered around the door of the cowshed murmuring quietly about the quality of milk and feed whilst the women, who this year have been nominated to all of the posts of responsibility, were chatting more loudly and volubly under the porch amongst the dogs who were busy sniffing each other's behinds.

Carmen was elected president of the village association this year and I had gone along to the meeting in her place as she was busy talking to the people in the house she rents (www.fade.es/pisondefondon). After a while I realised that everyone was waiting for the president.

'I wouldn't bother waiting for Carmen,' I said. 'She said she would be along in ten minutes but that could be an hour.'

'Claro. And I have to go look after the cows.' Nobody in Spain bothers much about lateness and claro is the all-purpose word that means 'fine, I see, no problem'.

'Well, why don't we look at the possibilities then.'

'There is the old chapel and there is a space up by the Campuso.' The Campuso is a large building at the top end of the village where the road turns to dirt, just where the illegal chickensheds are situated. The options floated back and forwards between the idea of using this bit of land where the road branches into path to build a new building, or making use of an abandoned building.

Abandoned buildings are a feature of this landscape. For an Englishman it is strange to see so many quality houses with no one living in them, their rooves going to pot and their outbuildings gradually falling into decay. Water is wreaking havoc with the stone walls of Blanca's second house opposite ours on the hill, for example: it seeps through the poorly maintained tiles and gets between the heavy stones opening up cracks.

'What about that triangle of land at the top of Carmen's field?' Marisol asked.

'Well, I can't talk for Carmen, but I think she might have some other ideas,' I replied.

'Claro.'

The conversation became animated as the women all threw in their ideas and their thoughts. The women have a peculiar way of talking that I have noticed when Carmen talks to Clara. They both talk at the same time, roughly about the same thing, without really listening to what the other person is saying. When you translate this to the village association meeting it is comic: four women all talking at the same time raising their voices to be heard but not stopping to listen. The dogs at their feet found this animation infectious and a ratty, aggressive terrier started running around attacking the alsatians' legs. These responded by baring their teeth and running around in a furry chaotic mob. It was rather fitting for this meeting.

There were no conclusions and a month later there were still no decisions. The Mayor of Grado came up to the village and looked at some entirely different options that no one had considered. Talking to Enrique I realised that there were some villagers who didn't even care for the idea of a social centre.

'What's it for?' he asked. 'We don't need a social centre here. Who is going to use it?'

'People can play cards there,' Carmen said, valiantly defending the notion that the village could have a social life.

'But who is going to play cards?' Enrique persisted. 'No one wants to play cards and, even if they did, why do they need a special building?' Enrique has a dry sense of humour and, even though he is from the city, has completely adopted that rural fatalism which likes nothing more than to pour cold water on a bright idea.

I thought of Enrique when Carmen returned from her most recent meeting with the women of the village association. They were all excited because they had received a letter from the Ayuntamiento saying that there was a grant for cultural activities from the Principality. Time was running out to make the application and they needed to come up with some ideas quick.

'Why don't we have a competition to make traditional desserts,' suggested Lily.

'Or we could get someone in to explain how to use your freezer better.'

'What about getting someone to do a course on keeping fit in your old age.'

What passes for culture in the village does not include literature, music or art. The main social event of the year, when the population of the village goes from thirty to three hundred, is the village fiesta. The 'cultural' component of this is the verbena, where a chap with a silky, wide lapelled shirt and a hammond organ plays cumbias and salsa and the women dance in pairs while the men prop up a bar in a tent getting drunk into the small hours and occasionally letting off fireworks.

Putting the village association in the hands of the women was a great idea. They get excited about the idea of fomenting life in the village and this is hugely entertaining. And, of course, if there is a grant going they will not miss the opportunity: wild dogs couldn-t stop them.
We were discussing the idea of the using this grant opportunity with Amand and Amalia, Carmens brother-in-law and sister. Amand is a theatre professional who mounts all kinds of shows for schools and colleges. They ran through a number of the ideas that they had used in other places, including poetry and paperfolding, painting workshops and puppet shows for children. Finally, they came up with the idea of Pinta la Vaca: Paint the Cow.
I can't wait to see it. A life-size fibreglass cow and calf for people to come and paint. It could only be better if it had cider running from its udders and a functioning moo activated by a well-positioned hand.