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The collective management of irrigation is an essential factor in agrarian development, both present and past. However, the relationship of irrigation associations with the state remains underexplored, despite the increasingly important role played by water policies in the modern world. The present article examines this relationship in Spain over the last two centuries. Our results suggest that, first, the state played a decisive part in the emergence and evolution of irrigation associations, and this belies the assumption of the traditional origin of these institutions; second, that farmers, despite being subject to the regulatory framework, enjoyed substantial autonomy in the management of water resources; and, third, that the relationship between local associations and the state changed over time, in response to political regime changes and the transformation of irrigation agriculture. When the state tried to impose authoritarian policies upon irrigation users, these reacted by developing unprecedented forms of organisation.
State control over Greece’s agricultural institutions increased during Metaxas’s authoritarian regime (1936–41). Analysing such state control allows us to address, in the Greek context, two questions with regard to fascist agrarian regimes. First, considering the trajectory of agricultural policy before the emergence of these regimes, how much of what they did was new, and how much was not? Second, how did the cadres of agricultural specialists participate in, or at least accommodate, the new regimes? Our research shows that Metaxas received support from the agronomists who had been active in Greece under previous liberal administrations. Such support did not take the form of laudatory statements or ideology-driven activism. It was rather a discreet acceptance of the new circumstances, combined with defection from one’s previous political camp. Metaxas’s dictatorship inherited most traits that made it a fascist agricultural regime from previous liberal administrations.
One messenger who never made it past a city wall was Francisco de Nanclares, the chief city council notary from Burgos, who in late April 1599 knocked on Valladolid’s Santa Clara gate with letters from his city about plague precautions there.1 He remained outside for two days, during which time the Valladolid city council took care of him, spending fifty-nine reales on his upkeep. The man in charge of the gate was Diego de Caranda, a member of the city council. Nanclares and his servant ate two meals a day and slept in the home of a woman who lived in the nearby countryside. They rented two beds, which were transported from an inn to the woman’s house. There was a load of hay and eight celemines of barley for their two horses. Rather than showing gratitude for this treatment, however, Burgos was shocked at the libel implicit in other cities’ hasty conclusions about its state of health. “No one anywhere will take in [people from Burgos]. Instead, they receive them with spears, insolence, ferocity, and blind ignorance as if it were true that the city is pestilent,” the aggrieved lieutenant corregidor, Francisco de Valencia, and his city’s doctors wrote to the king. They admitted that “more than” eighty people had died in the past three months; that same week the figure was raised to 120. But the disease was not true peste (“people are dying there but it’s not peste,” a recipient wrote on the cover page), and thus it was unjust for Valladolid and other places to cut off communications.2 Around a year earlier, in contrast, Valladolid had welcomed a messenger from Melgar de Fernamental, which had finally managed to be removed from the list of pestilent places. That man, named Diego González de Paredes, was allowed to enter all the towns on his route until reaching Madrid, where not only was he not allowed in, he was fined for insisting repeatedly that he had to give the Council of Castile a pile of papers about the alleged good health in his town.3
The men who carried these requests and the intermittent replies formed part of what was apparently a small army of envoys, messengers, and inspectors crowding the pestilent roads and paths of Castile, attempting to verify and quantify the alarming rumors and to “understand the nature of the illness.” Valladolid, for example, sent one of its postmen (correos), Simón García, to deliver one of its reports “to wherever the King Our Lord may be.” He was to leave Valladolid “today, Tuesday, May 18, at four in the afternoon.” After García found the itinerant royal court in Barcelona and obtained certification from one of the king’s secretaries, he told Valladolid that, “His Majesty has seen the letter and papers sent by the city,” and García was paid 114 reales the following month after his return.2