bus travel in Iberia

Bus Travel in Iberia



We are driving past nice houses, built by Portuguese
who have spent a life time working in France or Swiss.
Lot of brass and gilded door knockers, made me think
of expensive coffins, the kind used to bury kings and
statesmen, so utterly hideous, they must be glad to be
dead. But I will scoff it is someone’s dream I’m looking
at. Who am I to be a critic? Sometimes dreams should
stay firmly in the other world’s realm, or failing that,
listen to the advice of an architect; mind there aren’t
that many good ones around, it’s all about money.
I’m sitting on a bus on my way to France, it’s the least
expensive way to get there, we are all poor and equal.
I like the journey and there are regular stops for a pee
and something to eat. The landscape we travel though
right now has big boulders strewn about as some giants
of yore have been playing bowls. A signpost tells me we
are nearing Castello Branco, fifty minutes stop for lunch
and stretching of numb legs.