Shifting northward

On our way up the AP-7. No major posting till I've crossed the channel!

La Safor services, south of Valencia, clouding. Eye-catching ribbons of crag on the mountains behind. Around and towards the coast, more towns and villages we haven't seen.

I'm reading Galdos' Siete de Julio, sixteenth novel of the 46 Episodios Nacionales ... Set in 1822. The only one I've read before is the first one, Trafalgar. They're easier to read than his greater novels. I wish I could read them all, but I'll be happy with half a dozen.

These short novels we're Galdos' bread and butter, they were popular with readers. There's nothing quite like them in English or French. The fairly standardized plot motifs may recall Balzac or Dickens, but the historical events are real. (Which also distinguishes them from Trollope's "political' novels.) Galdos' comedy, language and observations are a delight.

According to the antiquated Britannica entry online, the final (unfinished) series shows some decline in Galdos' powers. That doesn't seem to be the view held in Spain.

That was my personal holiday souvenir. Before that, my imagination was in a Finland-Swedish groove; I'm reading Ulla-Lena Lundberg's novel Ice, and Gösta Ågren's trilogy. (Names vague and inaccurate.)

And before that, Drew Milne, Mark Lilla and Daniel Defoe. Plus quite a lot of leafing through the Mediterranean Plants book. It doesn't seem like much, in seven weeks. Not so many words are needed when around me the scene shifts constantly.