Generally, when speaking of certain privileged places, such as Valle del Jerte, either by an effect of association or sympathy, or if you prefer, by a timely combination of the two, the splendid beauty of the cherry trees immediately comes to mind. flowering; the joyful running of rivers and brooks by torrential streams and dreamy streams and picturesque villages, which resemble hermit lamps spread like fireflies by mountain ranges and valleys, in some cases, little or nothing hooped by man.

It is no less true, also, that the memory, at times, is sufficiently chaste to look elsewhere, when a particular topic does not interest you. Nor is it about being too harsh with it, because man, by default, cowardice, irresponsibility or supine selfishness, often has the bad habit of looking the other way, when something monstrous disturbs his conscience.

And of course, nothing is more monstrous, more painful and more inhuman, than the effects of a war. In our case, that is, in the case of that Spain of his although this Spain of ours -as the ill-fated singer Cecilia sang- the monster that terrifies our memory, has no other name, than that of the Civil War.

To be objective, I recognize that I do not understand much such a denomination, because it was not the civilians who initiated it, nor those who revolted, but the military, among whom we should add the politicians who did not know how to tackle it, at least in time. , or they did not want to. So much in the end, some for their betrayal - they called it "crusade" - and others for their apathy and cowardice, but with the blessing of a Church, which as it did in the time of the Crusades-the true, the historical, those who took, for example Jerusalem, in the year 1099- became 'a Pilate', thinking that ultimately, God in heaven and Peter Botero in the underworld, would recognize their own and holy Easter.

Surely for that reason, he reminded him of the poet Machado, the Spaniard who came to the world, that of 'one of the two Spains would freeze his heart'. It is not a matter of demagogy nor is it intended to open old wounds, but just the opposite: throwing a white dove in the air, with the purpose - ingenious on my part, I admit it - of preventing these, after so many years, from continuing suppurating and poisoning a few generations that, by the way, already have enough with the black situation that is seen on the horizon.

But neither is it worthy, nor is it fair to look the other way as if nothing had happened. And although on both sides the most unseemly barbarism was unleashed, the truth is that some did have their reparation, while the others continue to wait. Do you remember the introduction, of that immortal Michael Curtiz movie, entitled 'Casablanca' ?: 'waiting, waiting, waiting ...'.

El Torno, is one of those little villages, anyone would say that happily numbed in a high point of that Valley of Jerte, that so good memories usually leave in the visitors, as it was commented at the beginning. In its surroundings, dominating a depression from which one has an extraordinary perspective of a land that for many years has buried the furrows of the howitzers and did the same with those raincoats for the infantry that are the trenches, metaphorically speaking, the vision of solitary figures, shakes the soul and calls, sincerely, to compassion. Their solitude and nakedness, together with that impression of confusion, induce in the mind of the spectator the feeling that they were trapped, walking confused and with feet of lead for a hypothetical limbo called Desolation. It is not a pleasant vision, I recognize it and I suppose that each one, when seeing it, will have certain sensations. But I think it was necessary to throw a glove for memory, remembrance, compassion and peace before continuing on its way presenting some of the most beautiful and outstanding towns of this splendid region, given that one country we are all, let's think as we think and hoping that our right to think and express ourselves freely will never again have as destination, shots in the neck and mattresses in the ditches.

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