The other day Llibori died, an essential presence who gave character and pride to Sant Feliu. I didn't know him personally, but I stumbled across his tall, paradoxically unassuming figure in the street, with his long, straight hair and mustache. It was more than just seeing the great singer of Quercus, the rock band that played "rock music," founder of the fondly remembered Colla Jacomet, and capable of composing so much. Old fisherman as The Last Habanerawhich it truly was. He sang in Velvet's dark, ironic, and radical style.Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance", was introduced by Jordi Riera, another great singer from Colla Jacomet.
Not long ago, I paid a visit to the cemetery for no particular reason, which is the sensible way to go. I wandered through the archive of unknown ancestors, greeted Juli Garreta, and went to see my family's grave, where I have to move one day, if all goes well. Then I went to my favorite part of the cemetery, the free or neutral cemetery, which I called Gaziel, for non-Catholics, where the Freemasons and freethinkers are buried, the Muslims, Protestants, atheists, Jews… There in a niche we find President Irla, son of his tavern, Caso Romagué, and that of my own father, a man, by the way, so full of zest for life, as if he sensed he would die young. The grave I want to mention is that of the Peric family, buried directly in the ground: Grandfather Peric, an exiled communist; his son, the young Peric; and his son, the young man. The name Peric comes from the tavern they ran, Can Peric. A few meters further on, also on the ground, is the grave of the Cal Canari family, another tavern. The name came from the owner's excellent singing. Artists like Librio were bound to emerge from this world.
In the cemetery, you can hear the birds in the cypress, pine, and pygmy owl trees, and from the nearby woods. It's no wonder so many tavern regulars, so full of life and so open, are buried in the most welcoming part of the cemetery. I feel at home here, me, with a grandmother from the L'Empordanesa tavern and a grandfather from Cal Sabre, me who grew up in a bar in Platja d'Aro. My friend Núria also rests in the Perico family grave, she died before her poor parents, beautiful, empathetic, so pleasant and smiling in the portrait on her tombstone, wearing a hat and with one hand under her chin, as if to remind us of her philosophical vocation.
In times of columbariums, who wouldn't envy being able to honor the word burialIn this privileged cemetery? It's so pleasant to burrow among the dead like a worm, with the advantage of still being alive.
