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The only true voyage of discovery

is not to visit strange lands,

but to behold through the eyes of another.

Marcel Proust

This is one of the most ancient examples of art

of which there are records.

In these magical-religious cave paintings,

our ancestors wished to leave a record of the most

characteristic events of their lives:

hunting, death, sex.

We can also often find their handprints,

a sort of "I was here" of the time.

These men and women were nomads,

the cave paintings a way of telling their story

and remain eternal up to the present day.

I've always been very curious about the world.

That curiosity led me to be a non-conformist.

When you can't adapt to reality,

you fight so that reality adapts to you.

That is why I find filmmaking exciting.

Pressing rec, be it on a professional camera or a mobile,

is hard to beat.

Life is cinema, just waiting for someone to capture it.

Filming and then toying with those images

like a child playing with Lego,

building something new with the same pieces,

is my reason for being.

I moved to Madrid two years ago to fulfil

my dream of becoming a film director.

Along with my mate Edu,

I spend my days writing our films and series

with blind faith that they will be produced.

Sometimes that can be so frustrating.

I feel a bit lost.

I often wonder if all this effort is worth it,

or if I should do something that might help people.

I compare myself to my peers.

Most have stable jobs, mortgages.

Some already have kids. Now that is a movie.

I make do with the basics.

I have what I need to create.

A roof over my head, food, money to go out now and again,

go to the cinema or buy a book.

Those of my generation who lead an uneventful life

can enjoy moderate happiness.

I envy that ability to adapt,

but I couldn't get up every morning knowing

my day will be the same as yesterday and the day after.

This brought to mind my granddad, Antonio,

a street urchin and homeless until he married.

I can't get him out of my mind.

When just a kid,

he walked hundreds of miles through Spain with his father to get by.

The route that most marked him

was from Valencia to the Pyrenees in Aragon.

Granddad spent a few years writing his memoirs,

but quit because the memories upset him

and he was never able to continue.

I phoned him and suggested we could take

the same route to the Pyrenees,

but 75 years later.

I hope to recover the memories trapped in his mind

and maybe help him to finish writing his book.

I want to recapture the thrill of picking up a camera

and filming spontaneously with the same emotion

I felt when I was little and went out

with my dad's video camera.

Incidentally, it's the same camera filming me now.

My granddad loves the idea. He's really excited.

I've roped in Edu and my sister Carla to join me.

ROCA NEIGHBOURHOOD

And... action!

On 8 March 1940,

at 51 El Cid Street,

in Albacete,

Sebastiana gives birth to a baby boy.

I am that baby boy: Antonio Castaño Balboa,

son of Manuel and Sebastiana. The one writing this story.

- Ready for the trip? - Yes, sir.

Completely ready.

Shortly after the war ended,

there was nothing but misery everywhere

for those with nothing.

However, there was no choice but to carry on somehow.

My parents left Albacete because they had nothing there.

They were told that they'd be better off in Valencia.

You can imagine how hard it must be to move

to a place where you know nobody and have nowhere to stay.

At that time, the Turia riverbed

was full of families living near the banks

and under the bridges.

They had nowhere to wash clothes

or do their basic necessities.

We moved there and my father made a living

looking for scrap metal.

Meanwhile, my mother's job was looking after me.

There were more and more hardships

and my parents started rowing,

until one day my mother left when I was just two.

By order of the court, I had to stay with my father.

I never met any of my close relatives.

My only family was always my father.

We carried on with our lives, just the two of us.

He took me everywhere with him on foot.

As soon as he made some money,

the first thing he did was buy me something to eat.

Some days he went hungry, but I always had food.

My father divided Valencia into areas and days

for collecting scrap metal,

which he then went on to sell.

The routes lasted from one day to one week

when we walked over 50 miles.

My father tried to make a living whatever way he could,

doing anything other than stealing.

But even so, you had to keep your eye out for the Civil Guard.

I saw them beat up my father for begging on the street.

You could tell they enjoyed doing it.

In the afternoons, I would play with other children.

When it was time to eat, they went off with their families

and I went to sleep with my father wherever we had shelter that night.

- No, not that one. - No?

- It's not that cold. - Yes, but...

- It's not cold. - This has no sleeves.

- It doesn't matter. - Whatever madam wants.

Out of the way.

What's this?

- They'll end up all creased. - OK.

This way...

I'll do it in the end.

- It's not this way, either. - Let me.

- That's the way. - Done.

Goddamn it!

Done and dusted.

Hey! What's up?

- All good? - Are we going?

- We're going right away. - All good?

- Fine. - Nervous?

When I turned eight,

all my friends took their first communion.

But not me, I didn't have money,

not even to buy the suit.

After a while, since my father never settled anywhere

and didn't like to be in one place for too long,

he decided we'd go and look for work in Pamplona.

No, of course not!

What we didn't know at the time was, just like when Columbus

went in search of the East Indies and discovered America,

we would end up in a very different place.

THE ART OF ILLITERATES

- Now? - But look at me, tell it to me.

So anyway, my father decided to go to Tortosa,

and since I always went where he did,

we went to Tortosa in a freight train.

As soon...

- As stowaways? - As stowaways.

As soon as we climbed aboard,

we took the last wagon where there was a sentry box,

and that was where we hid without anyone seeing us.

That's how we got to Tortosa.

We took the train from Valencia and arrived in Tortosa

at nine in the evening.

We came here,

you could hear the sound of festivities:

rifle ranges, merry-go-rounds, tombolas,

there was a dance and everything.

Didn't you want to go on a ride?

Me?

How could I go on a ride

if we didn't have money for it?

In this part of his book, he tells how they slept

on a stone bench in the park while listening

to the songs coming from the fair.

He remembers one song in particular: Sombrero en mano.

I think we found the same stone bench online

and the song.

And my father said, "We'll sleep here."

On this very bench.

He sat up just like I am now,

and I lay down on his right.

How did you sleep on the bench?

- Me? Here. - Show me. How?

Like this. I lay down like this.

This way.

This way.

- Is it just as comfortable? - The same.

It has the same springs and everything.

And a viscoelastic mattress.

Gosh. Would you believe it?

Listen, the music.

Fancy that!

We even have the music.

They're doing it deliberately.

They saw me.

- What's that? - How did they do that?

Did you put it on?

That's the song they were singing here at the fair.

When we left Tortosa, we started walking

towards Pamplona, crossing paths and roads

and whatever was necessary.

We were used to walking for many days at a time,

but we had never covered such a long distance.

The roads we travelled down now were new to us.

The landscapes, different.

The people, different.

The world had become a much bigger place for me.

We must have been walking like that for about a month or so.

BUS STATION

We arrived at night.

As the bus station didn't have gates back then,

we went in and settled down for the night.

- Where did you sleep? - On that side.

OK, tell me the story, Granddad. Look at me.

Looking at you?

That's it. Just a second.

So, tell me the story.

As if you were telling it to someone.

"We woke up in Barbastro." Go ahead. Whenever you're ready.

My father and I woke up in Barbastro

and walked down a street

while my father stopped to ask people.

They told him that there might be work in Alquézar.

So we took the road to Alquézar.

As we didn't have a specific place to go,

we roamed around.

Walking through life, looking for sustenance.

When we reached Alquézar, we knocked on a few doors

to see if someone could help us.

They told us we might find work

in some villages further on.

I don't know if it was because of our appearance,

but it is strange that in every village

they always told us the same thing: there was no work,

but we'd find some in the next village.

Afterwards, though,

we reached another village and they'd say the same.

We packed a sort of rucksack, each of us had a sack tied with string

to carry some clothes in it

and provisions to make a meal,

but that was all.

We have several cases with clothes, the camera, lenses, a tripod,

radio mics, medicine, some food, a wheelbarrow,

a computer, hard discs,

a table and chairs, a brolly,

a fire extinguisher, and lots of water.

I forgot to pack waterproof clothing.

My father carried a comb, a razor,

shaving cream, the shaving brush...

We would wash

where there was water in the ravine.

We didn't wash too much so as not to catch cold.

If we were walking along this route and night fell,

we'd sleep under a tree by covering ourselves up.

Sometimes, if it wasn't under a tree, we'd find a slope

and cover the slope like this with branches.

And so we'd sleep under the branches.

- Like Indians? - Exactly like Indians.

Walking brings with it problems and moments of joy.

You can come across something and say, "Wow, that's so nice."

Things happen to the person who goes walking through life.

Nothing happens to the person who doesn't.

After walking from Alquézar, we reached Colungo.

Well, this is complicated.

Good Lord.

This is tough.

How did Granddad Manolo and I manage to reach there?

Granddad Manolo moved like...

He moved like...

those vultures you see circling overhead.

They don't know whether to land here or there.

Look how high the vultures fly. Look, right up there.

They're circling around to see if they can spot a chicken.

Where are you, vultures?

There was no destination. Even he didn't know it.

All he knew is that we had to "keep ahead, no matter what."

Let's see if we find something here, let's see if we find something there.

And we certainly always found something, dear Lord.

It's something that should have been planned back in Valencia.

- Would it make a film? - You bet.

How many million?

How many?

How much money to make the film?

- At least two. - Two million euros?

Well we get it. We get it and that's that.

We get the money wherever it is.

We'll rob a bank if necessary.

But wearing a mask or not? Unarmed?

Unarmed. At least we'll become famous that way.

Sure. You say, "Who do you think you are?

Come on, hand over the cash."

And then we can use it to make a proper film.

Werner Herzog.

What's the book called?

Of Walking in Ice.

- Do you know what it's about? - No, I don't.

This guy is a film director I like

who walked from Munich, in Germany, to Paris.

- That's a lot of miles. - Sure.

And he wrote a book about walking across the mountains,

the same as you with your father, but he was alone.

That was in '74.

He published this book.

I tell him a similar case to his own to encourage him to continue writing.

Look at him.

He looks half crazy.

What do you think cinema is for?

- What it's for? - What do you think it's for?

What it's always been for: so people go along,

they're entertained, they learn something.

Lots of things appear on the screen,

things you can learn from and that help

teach you their meaning.

Cinema isn't like a wax dummy.

When you were both travelling, did you not think

it was similar to something in a film?

No, because there were no films

that reflected what we were doing.

What type of film was yours?

You know, our film...

was about a couple of people drifting about.

What genre was your film? Action?

Ours?

It was more about starvation

than about action!

About being ravenous!

Really, really ravenous.

Today is very important, we are finally coming to

one of the most exciting parts of my granddad's memoirs.

One difficult aspect about making this documentary

is that he has no photos from back then.

So I feel responsible for being the first

to depict this journey.

Is the radio mic receiver on?

- Yes. - OK.

We found a place with some of the best views

of Betorz in the mountains,

the town where my granddad has the most and fondest memories.

Let's see the boot, Kevin.

A mess.

That's part of the adventure.

I'm amazed right now.

I can't stop thinking

that we were completely crazy

to travel along these roads up into the mountains.

Because this is incredible.

If you tell someone

that we did this, they won't believe you.

But it's true.

I couldn't even imagine it, and now...

I realise that it's complete madness.

Completely mad.

But look, that was the way it was.

I'll never be able to erase that memory.

The memory of that journey or this one, either.

A film is never the same when you see it again.

The same as a place when you revisit it,

because you're a different person each time you do it.

We can never make the same journey as he did,

but I'll settle for the fact that he can relive the story,

even if only for one more time.

We took a path from Colungo.

I don't remember if it was a few hours or a few days.

Actually, we didn't care because we were in no rush.

We walked until it felt right to us.

It was December 1949 and we'd been walking for two months.

We followed the pathway until we saw some houses up there

and decided to take a look.

There was a woman looking off into the distance,

blocking the sun with one hand.

When she saw us coming, she was surprised.

She started talking to my father and said, while looking at me:

"We could do with a little shepherd like him

to look after the lambs."

Once she had showed me all the lambs, kids,

and little animals, I said to my father:

"I'm staying here."

So they suggested to my father that I should stay there

and he could go and work for relatives in another village.

After all the effort that it had taken us,

my father mulled it over and decided to let me stay in Betorz.

And so we parted for the first time in our lives.

Mercedes was one of the daughters of that family.

We got in touch with her son, Jesús,

who still owns the house where he was taken in.

- Jesús! - Hello, how are you?

You look great.

How's the journey going?

- Fine. - Fine? That's good.

- We're finally here. - Great.

- Did you remember the area...? - Well...

More than what I had for breakfast!

Well, here we are.

I was waiting for you.

I told you we'd get here earlier, but...

No worries.

We spent the night in Colungo...

- Oh, you stayed in Colungo? - Yes.

Every day we go from one place to another.

Do you want to go up the road or the path? We can do both.

Whatever you want.

- It doesn't matter. - As you wish.

You're the guide here.

There was a fountain here.

Yes, down that path

there was one where they collected water in a pitcher.

It's dry now, it hasn't rained much this year.

There was a washing place, a drinking trough.

Water used to gush out...

This here is the school.

The school, of course.

I can picture the teacher, on that side.

It's like I can see her. Yes, sir.

What did you learn here?

What did you learn here?

What did I learn? Catechism...

more than anything else.

I still couldn't read and write a lot.

I was eight when I started

and I'd virtually not gone to school.

The little I did learn was here.

The church.

I still remember

the tune of the song your mother sang on the day of the communion.

Over there. She was over there, we were here.

It ended slowly, like that.

Your mother came, your father came...

The whole family came.

Like the other families.

We gathered together and the three of us took holy communion:

Antonio, Juan Antonio and Laurea.

There were no other children to take holy communion.

Why didn't you take it in Valencia?

Because my father didn't have any money to buy me a suit.

As he didn't have a penny...

I took it in a village...

but as I didn't have a suit... He didn't have a thing.

So I didn't take it in Valencia.

Those childhood memories are clearer

than things you did as an adult.

My memory might fail me...

but I remember that clearly.

Anything else?

That's it.

The three families gathered here.

My father, who was at staying some tavern,

brought me a little bottle of anisette,

the kind with a herb in it,

and a 25 peseta note.

That was his present for me that day.

Afterwards, we went to eat at your place.

The same thing, all the family.

They were a family, end of story.

We celebrated like everyone else.

Marvellous.

Do you expect me not to remember that?

That was the first place I slept when I arrived here.

There was a manger, a straw loft,

and I slept there.

I was nice and warm thanks to two bulls that were here.

Like Baby Jesus?

Exactly. Pretty much.

I was so happy to be there, it was a bed,

the same as a bed.

I'd put the gramophone...

I used to put it over here.

I'd wind the handle.

They'd come here to dance on Sunday.

The following Sunday, the gramophone went to another house.

Did you have fun?

I had a great time. I'd never had such a good time.

I always thought that your mother was a real saint.

So good.

You only have to look at her. Look at her face.

They say we look alike.

The face, the appearance, not the rest.

Whatever you say, but I think you look alike.

Even more so when she was a bit younger.

I grew fond of that family as if it were my own,

and vice versa.

Mercedes took care of me most.

She became like a sort of mother to me.

You can't imagine how great I felt to be in a family,

without having to wander aimlessly.

Knowing that every day when night fell,

I had a bed to sleep in, food...

For me it was a great joy.

I'd go to school in the morning, then look after the animals,

and after that I'd play with the other children.

I remember that shortly after I got here,

the grandmother heard that I was covered in fleas,

so she took me to the kitchen and between Isabel and herself

they gave me such a good scrubbing that my skin was shining.

I thanked them with tears in my eyes.

From then on, I felt that my days of misery and squalor were over.

- Hi. - What is it? What's up?

- How's the trip? - Get dinner ready, I'm coming.

- Are you having dinner? - No.

How's the trip?

Great, no complaints up to now.

Just as well. How about the filming?

- It's going well. - Is it?

- It's going well. - Good.

How is Kevin handling it?

- Bloody great. - Is he?

We'll see later... It's been brilliant up to now.

Then they have to edit the film later.

Sure. So you're all keeping well?

- How about you? - I'm good.

All right.

I think we're heading back on Tuesday.

All right then.

- All right. - Lots of love!

Likewise.

- Bye. - Bye.

I'd been living in Betorz for almost a year

when my father turned up in the village with a wheelbarrow.

He'd finished fixing the road

and came to look for me so we could be on our way.

When I saw the wheelbarrow, I got a knot in my stomach.

I remembered sleeping outdoors,

the hardships we had suffered on the road.

No way did I want to leave,

so the family hid me in one of the rooms.

I heard them discussing it downstairs.

My father understood that they loved me, but so did he,

and he was my father and wouldn't leave without me.

Now we're pretending that you're trying to decide between

staying here or, turning around and looking over there,

going back on the road again.

Without looking at the camera or us, what we want you to do

is look at the house hesitantly, then at the wheelbarrow.

You look back at the house. Then the wheelbarrow.

- We want you to do that. - OK.

Fine.

OK, look at the house.

Now turn to the wheelbarrow.

Now look at the house again.

Again. And now the wheelbarrow.

Walk up to the wheelbarrow,

take it, and go down there.

He eventually managed to convince them.

I said goodbye to the Campos,

the ten other families living in Betorz, and the teacher.

We all cried our eyes out.

Back then nobody had telephones, so when you said goodbye

it was forever.

Once I left Betorz,

I didn't feel right anywhere.

I wanted to go to Valencia, no matter what.

And I couldn't go by myself, otherwise I would have.

My father and I reached Sarratillo,

where we both got a job at a farmhouse.

It turns out that the owner of the house

was very stingy, she always rationed the food

because she used to say:

"With stale bread and sour vinegar, you keep a house running."

And I said, "You ration it, but I'll make sure I get extra."

I followed the cat's example.

The moggy had learnt to open a cupboard,

grab a piece of bacon,

and run down the stairs.

And I thought:

"Let's see what the cat does today."

So I seized the opportunity to open the cupboard door

just like the cat,

took a good slice of bacon

and began yelling, "The cat! The cat!"

And from then, the cat and I took it in turns to steal a little bit.

We quit serving at that house after a few months

and went to another place.

Back to walking again. Always walking.

I began to think

that my father didn't know where we were heading

and the name Pamplona never appeared on the signs.

We'll park in San Hipólito,

then walk as far as Alastrué.

- Will they be waiting for us there? - Yes.

With a brass band.

My father got work as a shepherd in Ballabriga

and they took me up to Alastrué.

- Alastrué. - That's where I was.

- In the north. - No idea for how long.

- For five, six months... - Wow, amazing.

- A season. - You have to say it to believe it.

- There are two houses there. - Two, right.

- That's all. - One is...

Casa Baylé.

- That's ours, where we lived. - Really?

My mother came down to live in this house.

What a coincidence.

We can't get there in the van?

No, it's a dirt track with lots of potholes.

And what's the closest we can get to the area?

Down this track, through the woods.

There's a barrier in the river, after that you'll have to go on foot.

How long on foot?

Over an hour and a half, even longer to Alastrué.

- Yes? - Two hours to get there.

Gosh.

OK, kids.

I could give you a lift there some other time.

This poor guy, Alejandro, doesn't know that film people

will always say yes when someone offers to help.

A month later we showed up again for a ride

to Alastrué in his SUV.

Alejandro was right when he said:

"You'll never make it in that van."

Watch out, a stream.

I think that a little boy living in Alastrué is like...

as if you grabbed him

and clubbed him over the head. End of story.

It's like he didn't exist.

Life there

was basic and then some.

Even the vultures didn't go up there, and there was I

discovering new frontiers!

I was a little boy

who adapted to wherever I was.

I didn't have friends, I didn't have...

I didn't have anywhere to play with anyone.

I was by myself.

What a pity.

Anyway... that's life.

Life goes on.

But life is over here in this...

in this place.

One day my father came to Alastrué so we could go

with my boss to take some pigs to Aínsa.

We loaded up and set off.

If your father was suddenly here with us now,

what would you say?

I'd say to my father:

What were you thinking coming to these places?

As if you were brainless.

And he'd reply, "Well, back in those days

you had to make a living,

so we came here."

That's all he'd say.

Another crazy episode.

One that began in Betorz and ended in Alastrué.

One of the many crazy things my father did on this journey.

Do you think your father was mad?

No, my father wasn't mad.

I wish he had been mad,

because then I'd have just locked him up in the asylum.

What he was lacking was affection.

If he'd been mad, he'd have suffered less.

At the end of the day,

I didn't suffer at all by his side.

He always looked out for me.

When walking, he'd say:

"Watch out for that stone, get closer here,

give me your hand...".

If everyone had been as mad as he was,

it might have been different.

He wasn't a bad person at all.

Everyone does what they can.

Sure. He did what he could.

This is the last shot on the video camera tape.

I've brought him to this lookout

with amazing views of the river Cinca

and the mountains seen from Aínsa.

This was the last thing he saw as a child,

the farthest point they reached after leaving Valencia on foot.

It was also the last thing he wrote in his memoirs.

There are no more pages.

When we reached Aínsa and saw those mountains,

I saw I was further from home than ever.

It seemed massive, like a huge stone wall,

and I thought that we couldn't go any further.

I couldn't stop thinking about going back to Valencia

and kept saying to my father:

"Let's go to Valencia, let's go to Valencia."

Eventually he gave in and said:

"All right, then let's go to Valencia."

And we went back to Valencia.

That was when I realised that my father

had let me decide for the first time in my whole life.

I don't know how the film should continue,

so for the moment I've decided to fade to black.

I'd love my granddad to say in his memoirs

that we filmed this documentary.

I don't know if he will finish them one day.

That's no longer important to me.

After this journey,

I want to understand what happened

between that boy

drifting around with his father and me,

the person now making a film.

I tried to sort out hundreds

of family photos and videos.

This is the first ever photo of my granddad.

He's 13.

He looks happy, satisfied.

Like a miniature version of a man, while now

he's like a big kid.

He was already a foreman then,

soon he was the one giving his father work.

Doing his military service.

My grandparents' wedding day.

When my uncle Antonio was born.

When my mother was born.

My uncle Raúl...

His holy communion.

My aunt and uncle's wedding.

My parents' wedding.

- Where do you want to go? - To the cinema.

Wait, I want to film.

Go on.

Go on! Go on! Go on!

Come on, Dad, I want to film the baby.

I filmed her before.

At the beginning I asked

if cinema serves a purpose.

Embarking on this journey, editing this film,

I realised it was my granddad who gave me that passion

I've always had inside,

that enduring spirit to push the wheelbarrow,

to move on without knowing where to.

He reveals that strength by walking.

I do it by filming.

Werner Herzog said that cinema is the art of illiterates.

Not all can read and write,

but everyone can watch a film,

regardless of their class, or where they are in the world.

In cinema, time and space are blurred

and can coexist in another reality.

And it is in that reality that we can understand

what happens to us as humans.

For me, my granddad comes from the past.

And for him, I come from the future.

We found a common space in cinema to tell our story.

Cinema is a mirror that can reflect

our past and our present.

We feel less alone knowing there are others

asking themselves the same questions.

It is the art of sculpting in time.

It captures the present, yet it is eternal.

Like the lives the nomads painted on cave walls

so they would remain there forever, and years later,

be found by us.

THE ART OF ILLITERATES

Is it nice?

MY GRANDDAD AND HIS FATHER CONTINUED LIVING TOGETHER

HE WAS REUNITED WITH HIS MOTHER AT 24 AND THEY NEVER SEPARATED AGAIN

That's certainly some kiss!

DEDICATED TO MANUEL CASTAÑO

FOR PUSHING THE WHEELBARROW THAT BROUGHT US ALL HERE

Keep on, no matter what.

I keep on sailing

With this happy tune

If I knew where I was going

I wouldn't have left the Roca neighbourhood

But my dad insisted

On going to Pamplona

And a few hours later, we got lost in this area.

THE ART OF ILLITERATES