In Search of The Source of The ... Odiel.

  That's right, chief. He means
little old moi.
Courtesy: Wikipedia

Not me, boyo, the other one.

Courtesy: Wikpedia

As the title suggests, today's offering is about how I (and thousands before me) reached the source of the Río Odiel, only (for me) to discover that, like the Nile, it has more than one source. Unlike Richard Burton (☚not that one!) the 19th-century explorer ☛  and translator of saucy literature, I decided not to press on to find its ultimate source, I wrote to the Andalusian Cartographical Service instead - and got a very nice reply from one of its chief cartographers solving the mystery.

But what mystery? I hear you cry in your, er, thousands?

Pery Moo & Carmelo on Mastiff patrol.

Well, in a nutshell the mystery is thus: near my mountain fastness there is a campsite, Camping Aracena, and a park and picnic area called Marimateos. It's a great place to go with the family, or with the dogs and let them all off their leashes. They have a right good larf chasing each other or playing with the campsite's friendly mastiff. Imagine, two Teckels (aka Dachsunds) and a Bodeguero (Spanish rat catcher) chasing a mastiff and trying to jump up and bite his tail.

A rather source-y claim, I must say.

By the side of this litter-strewn beauty spot (why are people so inconsiderate?) there runs a babbling brook which the dogs adore. Yet further upstream there is a spring which gushes tooth-numbingly cold, potable water all year round into said stream. Above this spring is the legend "Nacimiento del Río Odiel" or source of the River Odiel.

Carmelo inspects the source of the Odiel

Yes! The eagle-eyed will already have noticed! If the spring gushes into an already-existing stream, how can it be the source of the River Odiel?

... Yes, but Percy, is it really  the source?

This has given me more than one sleepless night over the last few months.

I have asked far and wide, yet to a man even the experts in local lore, legend, dream and pun in Higuera de la Sierra's Bar Manolete (great tapas!) can only give this concise, expert opinion: ni puta idea, or in English; this is indeed  a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside  an enigma.                                                                                                  

Blas the Infant ponders this and 
other Andalusian questions

So I emailed Agustín, a friend (and former student of mine) in the Andalusian Cartographical Service and received a very simple reply - convention. In the past someone said it was the source and thus it will remain until another, more intrepid explorer, or indeed John Mills himself comes pluckily along with with his sleds and ponies to prove that the source is to be found elsewhere and that no challenge is too much for The British Exploring Man. So now I have my homework and Agustín his revenge! 

Conclusion? Naaaaaah.

  

I, however, am not going to be like Agustín and conscientiously do my homework. No, no! I am going to take the dogs to Marimateo and smugly watch people as they fill their bottles with spring water from the source of the Odiel, while I all the time know it isn't the source. Crikey, what a smashing secret! Would I be the killjoy who turns this spring into just another spring and, by doing so, remove a small part of the pleasure of visiting this place of non-religious pilgrimage and imbibing its waters? No. Not I. We already have more than enough petty-minded killjoys spoiling things for us.

And now, before the rather bitter footnote, some more photos of Marimteos, all taken at about 20.30 on 19/09/2018:

Depression Is Rather Poo

Near Corteconcepción, Huelva

Well, it has certainly been quite a while since I trundled through this part of my digital demesne. Depression is an insidious thing. It creeps up on you and wraps its tendrils around your being like a fog in a story by HP Lovecraft. And like Lovecraft’s charaters, there’s little you can do. At first you are unaware of this existentially threatening animophage, then you’re paralysed and tend, at leat at first, to

surrender as the abyss claims you.

Percy Moo, the Foundling Teckel

Then you go to the GP, get your Prozac and wait for three weeks until the meds kick in and you’re your jaunty old self again. But… are you the same? Is your animus free of the tendrils? Or, have their bonds been loosened just enough for you not to feel them?

Carmelo, the Cheeky Chappie

Probably this latter, for as you get used to the med.s, the corners start to get dusty and the dark begins to gather, thicken and congeal in them once more. 

Solution? Different, stronger, depression-inducing drugs to alleviate your depression (WTF????). I shit you not . High-octane homeopathy - a bit cheaper and less quackery involved, however. 

Please don't get me started on homeopaths and their willing victims - they're as despicable as cyclists. Both tribes tend to sneer at the rest of humanity for not belonging to their particular brand of holier-than-thou New Age misanthropy.  As the late, great Terry Pratchett said about the bi-wheeled hordes: "My experience in Amsterdam is that cyclists ride where the hell they like and aim in a state of rage at all pedestrians while ringing their bell loudly, the concept of avoiding people being foreign to them. My dream holiday would be: a) a ticket to Amsterdam, b) immunity from prosecution and c) a baseball bat". For Amsterdam, read: "the cycle-friendly, pedestrian-persecuting town that it's my misfortune to be in at this moment".

But I digress. 

Percy Moo

If the pills don’t induce depression, they turn you into an emotionless zombie at the very least - all fine and dandy if you fancy a job in the meat trade, Guild of Assassins or want to cut a dash at your local suicide bombers' open day and gala. So one day, against the advice on the packet, and, indeed against your doctor's advice, you chuck the pills in the bin, start to come down/come up and cold turkey it out. This is not considered medical advice I 'm giving here, I haven't got a reputation for talking (and occasionally doing) bollocks for nothing. This is just what I did.  Except the bit about binning the pills. I was environmentally responsible - I took them along to the local chemist's.

Holy Prozac Batman!!! You stop
taking the pills???

I also cold turkeyed my ciggie habit a couple of years ago, but I'm not really sure it's such a good idea when it comes to psychoactive drugs. As Batman used to say on the 1960s TV show, "Kids, don't try this at home". 

"Life" begins to get even worse for a while, but one day you take your dog for a walk and you realise that you are both smiling and that perhaps the best type of chemical aids are your own endorphins.

Carmelo & My Dark Lady

You realise that not only has living with yourself been rather poo, it’s also been poo for those around you and you can’t but thank your Dark Lady, your children and your dogs for putting up with you while you’ve been morosely wallowing around in figurative poo for months. So thank you all for putting up with me and for dragging me along with you when all I wanted to do was sit on the sofa drink tea and listen to Radio 4 – which I hasten to add are all noble, legitimate pastimes per se, but  when indulged in, forsaking all others, can be quite debilitating.  

The Churchill car insurance
dog. I think he looks more like
Jeremy Clarkson. And on that
bombshell, ladies and gentlemen...

And fattening.

Indeed, as Sir Winston Churchill, all-time number one Englishman and self-confessed depressive once said "If your'e going through Hell, keep going", Oh yes. 

 It helps enormously, though, to be surrounded by people to help you keep on the track. Oh yes.

A footnote: A while ago I got some feedback about my Nutbrown Elephant Pie Funnel post from Peter Craig in Australia, also a victim of the Melancholia. Strange how these things happen. Here's his take on the pie funnel. Thanks, Pete for granting me permission to use it. 

Peter Craig's rendition of the Nutbrown Elephant Pie Funnel