I've had windmills on my mind. Partly because I'm following the plight of a group neighbors opposing a proposed group of 400 foot high, politically correct windmills in the Kingdom. A Cervantes-esque battle if there ever was one. Wind power has become such a sacred cow, no radioactive waste, no global warming, no mountain top removal. I find them ominous and disturbing, huge presences revolving ominiously. They look industrial and disfigure the ghostly sacred ridges of the Corbières. Unlike the ones that were still in use in Illinois when I was little, whipping around briskly, pumping a little water for a few cattle and sheep. From the top of one of these small ones, you could still probably see ten miles or so. The new ones are probably 400 feet high and from my sister's house in Danville, Illinois you can see many dozens of them, if not a hundred. She thinks they make the landscape she loves into a industrial hell. Marvin, my brother-in-law thinks they are great.
Who are the Quixotes and who are the Sancho Panzas these days, anyhow.
