Paddy Rekalde has found his coat in other ports and other towns. A handful of beer and some now deceased writers have been, on occasion, he companions. In others, the nights full of whiskey, conversations between friends, bars, Euskal Herria, Ireland, loves, songs, stories, the drinks in a good background, the abandoned towns, the forsaken hearts, the dancing, the interior heat and cold drinks, the living dead and the hugging between lips. Some notes and some stories. All written in the heat of the night, during the hours of beer and whiskey. All of them are daring. Not a single one is neutral, because there is no reason for them to be. The writer is on this side of the trenches and you know it. How couldnt he be? He is the son of a railway worker.
