Anglès 3 Tarda A SUMMER IN LA SALZADELLA, d’Antoni Vila

I remember the summer, the heat in the town, the House with white walls at 3, Plaza de Mexico, the House of my maternal grandparents.

I remember the mornings when, after having for breakfast some bagels and a good bowl of freshly milked milk, we went out early to the fields to collect lavender that we later sold in the town square.

On the way back we bathed naked in the river where our grandfather Juan would come to pick us up with the cart pulled by the donkey “Xuso”.

He would open a fresh and sweet watermelon for us which we ate along the way.

When we got home, our grandmother had already prepared the food and we all atre delicious pasta with vegetables and cheese and for desert lots of fruit.

I remember those uneven stairs that led to the under roof, where my two brothers and I spent the hottest hours after dinner, while our grandparents took a nap, there, hanging from the wooden beams of the ceiling, the ears of corn, the ñora Peppers and the occasional sausage were dried giving off that unforgettable smell of town.

At sunset our grandmother gave us a good piece of bread with chocolate and we went out into the street to play with the children of the town.

Behind the church there was a small square where at sunset the grandmothers sat and while they sewed or mended clothes they criticized the rest of the town’s inhabitants.

At the same time the concert of cicadas and frogs marked the pleasant difference with the noise of the city. I remember a time that will no longer retorn. I remember a dream from which I did not want to wake up.