The mills: the weight of the stars

I do not know how much they weigh the stars, but tonight I thought we were falling all over. It could not be that heaven soportase together without falling apart so violently upon us. Anytime, there was no doubt, They start to rush.

I do not know how much they weigh the stars, but tonight I thought we were falling all over. It could not be that heaven soportase together without falling apart so violently upon us. Anytime, there was no doubt, They start to rush, First slowly, Like drops running through a crystal one day of rain, after hasty, even with violence, With the rumble of a biblical plague. We had to take advantage, as, Those scarce minutes before catharsis, When we would irremediably plug ourselves in the coldness of a night without stars.

We had moved away a few meters from the restaurant on the way to the car and darkness had swallowed us in a few seconds, While we crossed awkwardly a stream, Those that take us to look up and discover the vigorous light of the stars. It was a magnificent show, Unexpected and overwhelming, and a culmination at the height of the sunset that we had given ourselves in the small fishing village of The mills, On the west coast of Fuerteventura, Without a doubt the most beautiful we contemplate on the island.

You had to take advantage of those few minutes before catharsis, When we would plunge into the coldness of a night without stars

The weather was pressing while we walked hours before mountain to the meeting of the monument to Miguel de Unamuno, intellectual nutrient of my youth and before whose statue I could not pass by, Even at the cost of not arriving in time to our appointment with the sunset. At the height of the Mountain of Tindaya, that Eduardo Chillida He dreamed of Horadar to twin in his bowels the sun and moonlight, A detour leads to the small town of Tepia and, After two kilometers by a forest track, The car is left at the foot of Burned mountain, where the Biscayan writer was written that he would not mind if they buried him, To continue walking on a steep track.

It is a desolate place, hit by a wind as overwhelming as the thought of Don Miguel, able to upset conventions and grip of common sense with identical vigor. Here, lonely and to the struggle of everything, It rises from 1980 The Statue of Unamuno, Tribute sense of an island to which he brought him into 1924 The intransigence of the general Rivera Primo, as fearful of free words as any dictator. Then, Like now, Oppose its own meaning to the onslaught of common sense was very expensive. I think, From that point of view, This monument in a lunar landscape swept by the winds Alisios is a perfect metaphor of Unamuno's work.

Casa Pon would deserve to enter by right in the select catalog of protected bars in Spain

From the FV-207 diversion, The road descends without remission as if it were willing to be swallowed by the sea. Between streams and cliffs, concludes in the Puertito de los Molinos under that deceptive light that precedes the sunset. We have arrived on time. As soon as I tell three or four parked cars where the asphalt ends. On the other side of a bridge, the privileged terrace of a beach bar, Pon house, that would deserve to enter by right in the select catalog of protected bars in Spain. "Fresh fish", They have painted their owners on the wall. And they don't lie.

To shelter of a horseshoe -shaped cliff, The mills says goodbye to the day with the whisper of the waves. Everything seems very distant from here, where even the remoteness of oneself is felt. Fishermen's silhouettes are cut on the cliff while, behind their backs, The clouds have fun with the waning sun. The beach sand asks to barefoot and demand silence. They are a few magical minutes, A colored show that is reflected on the shore for a few privileged feeling the weight of solitude against nature.

The fishermen's silhouettes are cut over the cliff while behind their backs the clouds have fun with the waning sun

When the shadows begin to win the battle in the faint light of the sunset, WE RETURN ABOUT OUR STEPS. While I serve the sand from my feet, I discover the presence behind my back, Mimetized with stone, of a caramel couple to which, of the blue, I am fulminating its romantic moment with my shirt shirt. One is not always aware of the ease with which he can become a homicide of libidos.

The beach sand asks to barefoot and demand silence. They are a few magical minutes, A colored show that is reflected on the shore

Soon, The only light that is glimpsed in what is seen is the one from Casa Pon, From where the sunset liturgy can be enjoyed without sand on the feet and with a glass in hand, That is not minor pleasure. Squid, old man, wrinkle potatoes, Pepper and prawns… The tasty dishes are happening while tropical beer. It is cold and smells like fritanga. The restaurant covered terrace looks like a lonely bulb in the midst of darkness.

It's almost ten o'clock at night when we walk back to the car, more and more groped as we turn our backs on the Benemérita Casa Pon. And it happens. We discover the starry sky. And i think: "They are going to fall". Because who knows how much the stars weigh.

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