For years, Pedraza was that endearing, traditional and graceful town that sneaked from rondón in all the Spanish homes during the days of Christmas. The Plaza -monumental as few- the church -whose Romanesque was gradually devaluing, defeated, when not humiliated by new trends less showy, but possibly more solid and willful- its castle, also humiliated by the variegated humors of time and its inhabitants , tanned by the frigid winds of the old Sierra del Dragón -Guadarrama- but welcoming, like old and good Castilians, invited, with their humble condition of rural saint and sign, to participate in that disappointing Eldorado that the writers, always confident to the time to point out the target, they called it the illusion of all years.
After the Epiphany, with the willful star guiding again the honest wizards to their mysterious place of origin in some still unknown island of the East, Pedraza collected with nostalgia their garlands, their inhabitants fell from the role of television extras until the next solstice winter and the lands returned to welcome the brotherhood of the tillage.
The Winter Winter kept away the unbridled hordes of that metaphorical king of the Huns, which is Don Turismo and in the bars and taverns the parties of mus and tute returned to bring together the family of leading men of the place; the table football again became that imaginary Santiago Bernabéu or the Vicente Calderón and the eternal rivals from Madrid returned to face each other, directed at discretion by some infanzones who dreamed of being aces of football.
The beautiful medieval door, with an unmistakable Mudejar pedigree -that the conquest of Sepúlveda, good Christian blood cost, and there was the workmanship dwells to compensate- continued his languid vigil looking at the corners and gorges to infinity, his solitude broken by the untimely arrival of the van of the butcher or the baker or the fishmonger or even the Land Rover of the Civil Guard, who came to verify that the law and order continued without incident, once converted into a tourist relic, the old medieval prison.
Or summarizing and echoing the saying: until spring, Pedraza Castilla and peace.
NOTICE: although unpublished in Steemit, was originally published in my blog SEGOVIA WAY IS WALKING. Both the text and the photographs belong to my exclusive intellectual property. The original entry, whose authors can check that it is from juancar347, can be found at the following address: https://jcarlos347.blogspot.com.es/2015/04/pedraza.html
