ABSTRACT

The next morning we recorded the song which the director of the museum in Pontevedra had told us about. The traditional song of the Easter procession in Finisterre sung by the church choir, the usual collection of twelve girls and three men; nice folks, but they sang in a completely conventional style, giving us two songs of the Finisterre romeria as well as the Easter procession. Just as they were finishing, three burly boys came bursting into the doctor’s kitchen and demanded to be heard. They demanded why we had recorded all of this nonsense and swung into one of their fishermen’s ballads (Eres Una, Eres Dos).* It was easily the best thing we took in Finisterre, and we would have recorded more of these ballads if we had not been so frighteningly short of tape.