“You really didn’t know how to plant potatoes.” he says, with a smirk.
This is partially true. I had lived in Portugal for a bit before moving here and I had learned from a wonderfully inspiring Rasta neighbour how to do it. I had no idea what Colorado beetles were though, nor what devastation they could cause. But I know a method to deal with them.
I know a lot about ancient petroglyphs since moving here, even though Villager J claimed it was just a useless rock I had stumbled across.
I know that wild boar will get to your about to be harvested potatoes if they really want to. And there’s nothing you can do to stop them. Zilch, nada.
I know that there’s no such things as earthquakes in the village, it’s just Enraged Enrique’s Oxcart.
I know that tornadoes do happen in Galicia, even though I thought they didn’t.
I know you should crouch down and look at frozen mud up close. Because it doesn’t look anything like you think it would.
I know that cabbage and kale leaves are highly entertaining.
I know that it’s important to go for walks with a stick. Because there’s dangerous dogs out there.
I know all about chimney fires.
But most importantly, I know it’s essential to feel small. Often.
To remind ourselves how little we really know.