Across the Pyrenees We had to change. Iberian rails were a wider gauge. The tricorn hats of the Guardia Civil glared in the rain. Their submachine guns glared, and that’s   how we knew Franco was still alive. The sleepy passengers packed in, leaned on baskets or thigh to thigh as steel on steel made a lurching whine   and we were moving through the night, the Spanish night, the civil war of books fresh in my memory and in the looks these faces bore,   till a man whose thin, unshaven face was wan with sleeplessness pulled down a…