I wouldn’t say Dave Thompson is obsessed, but spend any time with him in the pub and conversation seems to focus on two things – a small town in Galicia and a small football club in Sheffield.
For a while now I have sat with Dave and his fellow-stags listening to these mythical stories of fine Spanish beer and food and when Sheffield Wednesday ruled the world. Separating fantasy and reality is difficult, but I couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous of this and eager to get in on the act.
Becoming a Wednesday fan is an obvious “no”, I am Chesterfield FC through and through. Becoming a stag is the much better option and I was thrilled when Dave invited me to Pontevedra for Anglo Galicia IX.
I was lucky to be accompanied by a few other new stags for Anglo-Galicia IX. It meant it was a learning experience for all of us and it meant there was a really good balance of seasoned pros and enthusiastic amateurs. I doubt that any Englishman could become weary of Pontevedra, but I hope that sharing the enjoyment of people seeing it for the first time meant that the older heads were reinvigorated.
On arrival at Santiago what struck me immediately (as well as how lucky we were with the weather) was how accommodating and welcoming everyone was. It was difficult to tell what was organised weeks in advance and what was on the spur of the moment. Everything was excellent, the walking tour, the beer, the cheese. It was probably the only time we would be cultured during the whole weekend but it was nice to lap it up and it was a brilliant introduction to the rest of the weekend.
I won’t go through in detail what happened during that weekend but essentially it either involved drinking beer, eating snacks, talking in a vaguely Spanish accent while nodding away listening to the Porcos and, for me at least, falling asleep in random places – on steps, against walls wherever I could catch up! This provided much amusement for Stags and Porcos alike; but it was nice to feel part of the gang straightaway.
The trip to Vigo was fantastic fun. I hope that there are now several Galicians who know all about my team in England, Chesterfield FC because we all wore our football shirts. The fact that we witnessed a rare Celta victory probably meant more beer flowed than usual so I’m guessing the memories are really hazy! Back out in Pontevedra at midnight and I think the new amigos found it fantastic there were so many bars still open, that the air was still warm and so the night just slipped away.
Saturday night was even more extraordinary. After a long day in the sun some of our wiser and more elder Stags decided to retire early. The new amigos (the three amigos!) decided to enjoy a second wind and, I think it’s fair to say, were sabotaged by the Porcos who were obviously very wary of this new and untested football talent! As it turned out, the Porcos probably should not have worried. But it was nice all the same.
The amount of sleep I had on Sunday morning before the football match really was not worth thinking about! If the event had not been so well organised then it’s doubtful the three amigos would have made it. We did make it and we tried our best, but the we’ve all played to a better quality. There’s a phrase in England for a strong defensive clearance it’s called “putting it into Row Z”. We were not so much putting into Row Z as making up an entirely new alphabet; it was not tika-taka.
I had a flash of inspiration. I saw the field open up in front of me and like Paul Gascoigne in 1996 I had a vision of my beer-soaked belly weaving between Spanish defenders. I could be Georgie Best, I could be Chrissy Waddle, I could be Jack Lester….
….I fell over the ball.
I think the nearest Porco felt so sorry for me they almost gave me the ball back but at that point I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Still, I was pleased with the moment I saw Thomo in space and provided him with a sumptuous pass for our first goal. I can retire on one assist, but I’ll be back for more in Round X.
By the close of the night we were back singing and dancing together. The football was a hazy memory, we were all tired but we pressed on in a shared pursuit of beery happiness.
Anglo-Galicia IX made zombies of several Stags and the new amigos came home changed men.
Sweat, tears and beers had been spilt in a small corner of the Iberian peninsular that we knew we could now call our home.
Thank your for our welcome.
Tres hurras por el fútbol y la cerveza
The Anglogalician Cup 
Excelsior.
Huele a cerveza y a verdad
What were your first impressions of Pontevedra/Galicia? It smells of dead fish, and there are no black people. I always thought it had a distinct aroma of cabbage. It does but I thought I’d say dead fish as that’s more disgusting.
Well, I’ve been here more than 12 years but never smelled either. But I have seen many Somalis. The smell you mention could be that from the cellulose factory from nearby Marín. But it hardly ever reaches the city, depending on the weather and the wind.
Speaking of results, after our recent visit, the ‘match’ is best forgotten as far as we Stags are concerned. All my careful jottings of the ‘game’ have been cast into oblivion and only surface when I have eaten cheese late at night. We stayed again at the Hotel DeBarca though I hear its going to change its name to the Hotel Debacle to reflect the Stags performance. Our hungover ‘hero’s’, some with face’s as green as their shirts (which cast off snooker tables did you get the material from Thompson?) formed up like lambs to the slaughter in the bright Pontevedrian sunlight. Overhead the sea gulls wheeled and cackled like airborne witches from the first act of the ‘Scottish Play’. The rest is history, Thank God, apart from the victory ale served up by Serge in the usual hospitable manner by our Galician chums, I think it still lies resurgent in Clayton’s lower colon to this day and comes up for air and a look at the outside world from time to time. More restful memories come to mind, the first intravenous infusion of Estrella Galicia (lovely girl) in a bar called the Trafalgar in Santigago almost had me doing a hornpipe while whistling a Mike Oldfield tune and dreaming of the great day’s of the Royal Navy ie ships biscuit complete with weevils, fishing for fresh rats in the hold and rum, sodomy and the lash…
All those times back in Blighty where you visit a pub called the ‘Bulls Head’ and there ain’t one. Back in PV and there’s a bloody great one looking like its just charged through the wall in a position where we would have being seeing mice and tall rabbits called Harvey if we had lingered another forty eight hours. Curious toilet arrangements in a winebar, groaning platters of Galician Breakfasts with me casting a wary eye out for tuna, tapas par excellence, 6/% moorish beer served up by the Argie, late night sandwiches in PV, clean streets, civilised drinkers, Galician lasses with chic,not showing their thongs or tattoos, police you treat with respect, football with loads of passion and beer but no violence…
Not like bleeding Chesterfield on a Friday or Saturday night then……….
in fact its not like anywhere in bleeding England on a Friday or Saturday night and certainly not West Street/Glossop Road. As for the delights of Woodhouse ……I prefer .P G.myself… take my.Tips-its better than Tetleys.
What’s this Galacia Uber Alles? A new brewery?
Muy buena la entrada.
Recordamos tu caída con fair play
The Spireites Chesterfield : Terrific, traditional-sounding nickname from the north Derbyshire club. Named after the town’s famous crooked spire. The ‘ite’ is still affectionately used in the North Derbyshire/South Yorkshire area (e.g. Spireite, Wednesdayite, Unitedite)
quepis y quinina, George Borrow y el Sastre de Pontevedra.
No está mal.
ROBERT WALKER is a company categorized under Nonclassifiable Establishments.
Address
816 TRANSMITTER RD Ponte Vedra ¿ Beach, Florida, United States ?
Stag’s ales ?
Awaydays siempre son los mejores, máxime si ganas
En Abril de 2014, más y más
Well done Rob! Nice story, maybe we let stags win the Cup… in a few years!!!
Conclusión de los del Norte de Galizalbion: Pontevedra es lo que hay entre tascas y chicas bonitas sin tatuajes.
si una autopsia puede ser graciosa, ésta de la IX, lo es.
quinina, quepis,salacot, colonia.
Willard Fluke
Mi esposa perdió la salud
y fue menguando hasta pesar apenas los cuarenta kilos.
Entonces apareció esa mujer,
a quien los hombres llamaban Cleopatra.
Y nosotros— nosotros los casados,
quebramos nuestros votos, yo con todos los demás.
Pasaron los años y uno a uno a los otros
la muerte los reclamó de alguna forma atroz,
y a mí me arrastraron los sueños
de que Dios me concedía una gracia especial,
y comencé a escribir, escribir, escribir resma sobre resma
acerca de la segunda venida de Cristo.
Entonces Cristo vino a mí y me dijo:
“Ve a la iglesia, preséntate a la congregación
y confiesa tu pecado”.
¡Pero cuando estuve ahí y comenzaba a hablar
vi a mi niña sentada en la primera fila—
mi niña que nació ciega!
¡Después de eso todo ha sido tinieblas!
Aner Clute
Una y otra vez solían preguntarme,
cuando pagaban el vino o la cerveza,
primero en Peoria y más tarde en Chicago,
Denver, Frisco, Nueva York, donde quiera que viví,
por qué llevaba la vida que llevaba
y cómo había comenzado.
Bueno, les conté que con un vestido de seda
y la promesa de matrimonio de un rico—
(fue Lucius Atherton).
Pero no era muy cierto.
Pongamos que un muchacho se roba una manzana
del cajón de la frutería
y todos empiezan a tildarlo de ladrón,
el director del diario, el pastor, el juez y el pueblo entero—
“Ladrón”, “ladrón”, “ladrón”, por donde vaya.
Y no puede conseguir trabajo, y no puede conseguir el pan
sin robarlo, pues el muchacho tendrá que robar.
Es la forma como la gente mira el robo de la manzana
lo que hace al muchacho ser lo que es.
Chesterfield is a handsome populous town, well-built and well inhabited, notwithstanding it stands in the farthest part of this rocky country; for being on the north west side next to Yorkshire, it enters Scarsdale, which is a rich fruitful part of the country, though surrounded with barren moors and mountains, for such the name Scarsdale signifies, according to that master of etymologies, Mr. Cambden. Here is, however, nothing remarkable in this town but a free school, and a very good market, well stored with provisions; for here is little or no manufacture.
From hence (travelling still north) we entred the great county of York, uncertain still which way to begin to take a full view of it, for as ‘tis a country of a very great extent, my business is not the situation or a meer geographical description of it; I have nothing to do with the longitude of places, the antiquities of towns, corporations, buildings, charters, &. nor much with the history of men, families, cities or towns, but to give you a view of the whole in its present state, as also of the commerce, curiosities and customs, according to my title.
The county is divided into three ridings; as I entred it from the south, it follows, I went in, by what they call the West Riding, which, as it is by much the largest, so it is the wealthiest and the most populous, has the greatest towns in it, and the greatest number of them; the greatest manufactures, and consequently the greatest share of wealth, as it has also of people.