[This story is collected in Things, published by Planet Books in 2001]

This is the moment when the earth, to get to sleep, begins to turn its back on the light, and the smoke from the rooftops, thick and milky, begins to spread out along the bottom of the valley. There is nothing out of this world about painting what the eye, which will be eaten by worms, can see; yet there are more things in the landscape worth our attention, for inside that singing water-mill two lovers are kissing for the first time and inside that pazo by the dead chestnut tree the dogs are howling.

From a churchyard we can see the valley sunk in rain. The water, falling without respite, lays the blue smoke flat against the shining rooftiles of a hut. The lanes are covered in mud and a blanket seller rides past on his beast of burden. Here is a subject for a painter; but there is still more to the landscape, for they are tolling for the dead in the church belfry and the sound is as bitter as if they were striking the bell with the head of the deceased and we cannot tell in which of the village houses there has been a tragedy, because each and every one of them is sad.

A moonlit night. Beside a legendary crossroads the base of a cruceiro is the stone table where they place the dead to say a response for them; through the pines the peaceful ria appears; the moon hangs from the branch of a pine. The painter has to evoke something more than what he can see, because on the cruceiro's stone table, that same day at dusk, they placed the dead body of a young man back from military service; along that hollow way goes a student priest brooding over the girl with the red headscarf who robbed him of his vocation. And in the distance people are singing an alalá.

Sunday at dawn. The faraway woods are tinged with the azures of Patinir; the broom and the gorse add their yellow notes to the divine green symphony of the landscape. There are many more things in the landscape for an artist, because on a branch of that apple tree Guerra Junqueiro's blackbird, still "gleaming and jovial", awaits the village priest to wish him good morning; it rained yesterday; the church bells ring out a muiñeira and along the river-meadow paths down there the little black and red ants are coming to mass.

Time has adorned the old feudal castle with a layer of gold and silver; the slaves of the taxman are hoeing their plots of maize; through the shadowy willows at the bottom of the valley the sickle of the river can be glimpsed. The sun beats the back of the earth. It is all waiting to be painted, for it all delights the eye; yet in this landscape there is still more. Today is St John's Eve, there is the scent of a mother's lap in the air, the crickets are singing and the warm wind brings us the sound of a tuba from afar. Tomorrow we shall wash with scented herbs.

Night was falling. The black silhouette of a pine tree was sketched out against the dark blue of the sky. You all know that in spring pine trees sprout thousands of candles, taking on the appearance of giant candelabra. How often have we felt the urge to light the candles on the pine trees! Well then, the village viaticum (the priest, two boys, four women praying) happened to pass close to my pine tree; and then came the miracle! Brother pine, sensing the holiness of the moment and in homage to the Sacred Host, lit his candles, which remained alight until the viaticum was lost past the bend in the lane.

One Christmas Day, while contemplating a landscape that resembled a Nativity, I realised that there is more beauty in the little flowers of the fields than in garden flowers. The daring little flowers that spring up in the fields look as if they might have been created by Bosch or by Breughel the Elder, whereas the dusty garden flowers look like Rubens' blubbery nudes. Ever since then I have wanted to be an adventurer of letters.