Second meeting 22nd May club

Los Angeles
Castlenel.

Los Angeles is the name we give to our lounge,which is on the second floor of Castlenel. I is calles Los Angeles because I was given a lot of angels as gifts when we left Ireland, and this is where the angels live.

John's had first choice this evening as we sat by the balcony , over looking .Carrer Mig.

Chosen because this passage resonates with both of us, it reminds us of the changes during summer days here in Castalla

From Tales of
THE ALHAMBRA. W Irving.

I occasionally amuse myself with noting from this balcony the gradual changes that came over the scenes below according to the different stages of the day.
Scarce has the grey dawn streaked the sky and the earliest cock crowed from the cottages of the hill-side,when the suburbs gives signs of reviving animation,for the fresh hours are precious in the summer season in a sultry climate.
All are anxious to get the start of the sun in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his loaded train for the journey,the traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel,the brown peasant urges his loitering beasts,laden with panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables,for already the thrifty housewives are hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley,tipping the transparent foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the pure bright air,announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his burthened animals before the chapel,thrusts his staff through his belt behind and enters with hat in hand,smoothing his coal-black hair,to hear a mass and put up a prayer for a prosperous
wayfaring across the Sierra.And now steps forth on fairy foot the gentle senora in trim basquina, with restless fan in hand and dark eye flashing from beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well - frequented church to offer up her mornings orisons,but the nicely adjusted dress,the dainty show and cobweb stocking the raven tresses,exquisitely braided,the fresh plucked rose that gleams among them like a gem show that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts.Keep and eye upon her,careful mother,or virgin aunt or vigilant duena whichever you be,that walk behind.
As the morning advances, the din and beast of burden of labour augments on every side;the streets are thronged with man and steed and of beast of burden,and there us a hum and murmur,like the surges of the ocean.As the sun ascends to his meridian,the hum and bustle gradually decline;at the height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude and for several hours there is a general repose.The windows are closed,the curtains drawn,the inhabitants retire into the coolest recesses of their mansions,the full fed monk snores in his dormitory, the brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden,the peasant and the labourer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda,lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust,The streets are deserted except by the water-carrier who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage^^colder than the mountain snow^^
As the sun declines,there is again a gradual reviving ,and when the vesper bell rings out his stinking knell,all nature seems to rejoice that the tyrant of the day has fallen.Now begins the bustle of enjoyment,when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and the Xenil.
As night closes,the capricious scene assumes new features.
Light after light gradually twinkles forth,here a taper from a balconied window, there a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus by degrees the city emerges from the prevailing gloom,and sparkles with scattered lights,like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden and street and lane the tinkling of innumerable guitars and the clinking of castanets;blending,at this lofty height in a faint but general concert ^^ Enjoy the moment^^, is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practice it more zealously than in the balmy night of summer,wooing his mistress with the dance,the love ditty and the passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated on the balcony ,enjoying the light breeze that came rustling along the side of the hill among the tree-tops, when my humble historiographer Mateo who was at my elbow pointed out a spacious house in an obscure street of the Albaicin,about which he related,as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.

Washington Irving.


I chose a this passage from my favourite book Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

This is the moment Pip leaves Joe and his old life behind ,to travel to London to his Great Expectations.

I could not be part of the May 22nd club and not have something from Great Expectations. I expect I will choose more passages in the future..
Maybe because I am living with the prospect of loss at this time, this passage resonated with me this evening.

It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,saying with a sort of briskness,as if it had only just occurred to me,"Well I suppose I must be off!" and then i kissed my sister who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair,and kissed Biddy,and threw my arms around Joe's neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them ,was when I presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back,saw Joe throwing an old show after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped than,to wave my hat,and dear old Joe waved his srtong right arm above his head,crying huskily "Hooroar!" and Biddy put her apron to her face.

I walked away at a good pace ,thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be,and reflecting that it would never have done to have had an old show thrown after the coach,in sight of all the High -street.I whistled and made nothing of going.But the village was very peaceful and quite,and the light mists were solemnly rising,as if to show me the world,and I had been so innocent and little there,and all beyond was so unknown and great,that in a moment with a strong heave and a sob I broke into tears.It was at the finger-post at the end of the village,and I laid my hand upon it,and said"Good-by O my dear,dear friend!"
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears,for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth,overlaying our hard hearts.
I was better after I had cried,than before- more sorry,more aware of my own ingratitude ,more gentle.If I had cried before,I should have had Joe with me then.
So subdued was I by those tears,and by their breaking out again in the course by the quiet walk,that when I was on the coach,and it was clear of the town,I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down when we changed horses,and walk back,and have another evening at home,and a better parting.We changed,and I had not made up my mind,and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and walk back,when we changed again.And while I was occupied with these deliberations,I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us,and my heart would beat high,-As if he could possibly be there!
We changed again ,and yet again,and it was now too late and too far to go back,and I went on.

And the mists had all solemnly risen now,and the world lay spread before me.

This is the end of the first stage of Pip's expectations