The other day I found myself dreaming of a different place.
I dreamed of a small village lost in a green valley guarded by cows. I dreamed of a small century-old mill, a tiny stone house by a river, protected by the trees, as if trying to go unnoticed. I found myself walking along the path, opening the curtain and pushing the wooden door.
Then the dream became stranger as a washerwoman, sensual and haughty, took me by the hand and invited me in. In a kind of Galician dialect, she whispered in my ear her story written in sketches, always unfinished, always waiting for someone to wake her from her lethargy. A simple washerwoman who lives between the pages of a red-covered notebook, with an erotic air, comfortably resting on a metal lectern. And there, crouching between the paper, she waits patiently for any visitor to write the next chapter of her exciting life.
Suddenly, the girl vanished and I thought I was alone inside the mill. But I was wrong, for I then saw Poetry delicately swinging from a swing that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. She looked at me mockingly and even, boldly, dared to invite me to a drink at the bar in exchange for reciting some improvised verses to her.
I dreamed that Poetry flirted with me, seduced me with her idyllic wordplay, trying to get me drunk on sonnets, looking me straight in the eyes. She told me incredible stories about that surrealist mill; she told me of puppeteers whose stage is the grinding wheel itself, of the magical nights that never end, of sculptures carved on Sundays upon the wood of millenary chestnut trees, of those who have their own virgin whom they take out in procession every Good Friday, of afternoons in front of the fire… And with each of her words, the dream seemed more unreal to me.
I saw myself in my dream observing the stones of the century-old mill and through them I remember that imagination, eroticism, and humor slid… And between the flames dancing playfully in one of the fireplaces, magic appeared. Suddenly, a small frog jumped from the wall to the floor and disappeared through a back door. I couldn’t help but follow it. As soon as I stepped through that door, Poetry gave me another wink. Inevitably, I smiled.
I appeared in a dazzling green meadow. The river ran carefree and seemed to leave whispers in the air. Next to a stone bench, something moved in the grass—a gnome, a small nymph, perhaps? With a great leap, the frog corrected my mistake. I thought I saw it stick out its tongue before diving into the water. I wouldn’t see it again. I felt nostalgia. I discovered in that moment that it is possible to feel nostalgia in dreams too. To combat it, I walked through the green meadow. Next to the mill was a tiny wooden bridge and, on the other side, a small house surely taken from a fairy tale.
And just when I expected to see Little Red Riding Hood come out the door, I woke up.
The best thing about this kind of dream is discovering that it’s not a dream but reality.
Some practical information:
If you want to enjoy my dream, you have to go to El Molino de Agüita in the village of Quintela, in El Bierzo (León), between Ponferrada and O’Cebreiro. You have to take the A-6 national highway towards A Coruña and take exit 419 and continue towards Balboa. A few meters after entering Quintela, you will see a small sign indicating a path to the right that takes you to the mill
The first written reference found of this mill dates back to 1905. It was active until the early 80s, grinding rye grain to produce flour. A few years ago, a group of people decided to restore it and turn it into what it is today. A place to have a drink, meet friends by the fire, write, read, enjoy theater, music, lie in a hammock in the sun, chat with Rosa …
Find them on Facebook: El Molino de Agüita.
