Spain 2023

Barcelona Revisited

Would it be appropriate to call it culture shock, leaving behind the vineyards, villages and mountains and being transported in a comparative instant to the international tourist maelstrom which is Barcelona’s La Rambla? Well it’s certainly a significant change of scene. The place is absolutely alive with people and activity in exactly the way we remember it, and Barcelona feels as joyous and energetic as ever.

It’s a fairly long time now since either of us have been to Barcelona, and we haven’t previously been here together, so this is a reacquaintance with different memories for each of us. Some things have changed down La Rambla since our last visits: gone are the shackled monkeys and the cages packed with way too many canaries, replaced inevitably by souvenir sellers, human statues and lottery ticket vendors. Many of the old style shops are now phone shops, tat shops and, wait for it, cannabis stores. Yet La Rambla retains every ounce of its verve, every inch of its stature, and strolling from the top down to the Christopher Columbus statue at the bottom is as exciting and fulfilling as it ever was.

The two ends of La Rambla, Christopher Columbus and Plaça Catalunya

Did we say phone shops? Yes we did, and one of them has breathed life back into my ailing iPhone – that’s one Gadget Curse issue solved, just the camera to go…

OK so here’s the real culture shock. You can’t get In anywhere easily. La Sagrada Familia? Nope. Parc Guell? Nope. Barcelona Cathedral? Nope. And the list goes on. Right, what we mean is, you can’t just bowl up, join the queue and buy a ticket…oh no, that time honoured way of life is seemingly long gone. It’s all “QR codes”, “apps” and “on line tickets only” now. And then you have to book a specific time slot for your visit and make sure you get there at the prescribed time – and, what’s more, everywhere is already sold out at least a day in advance. Having to make advance timing arrangements feels restrictive, especially with the distances involved between sites.

As far as I can recall, the last time I came here you didn’t even have to pay to enter Parc Guell at all, let alone pay in advance and then jump through a series of technological hoops just to get there. It’s a good job Michaela’s here to do all this stuff – I knew she’d probably come in useful one day…..(M: how rude is that!!).

To visit Barcelona is to enter the world of Antoni Gaudi. We will be doing a separate post on Gaudi and his works, to follow shortly.

And so, with Michaela having negotiated the app-and-download steeplechase, our visits are sorted, in spite of the restrictions. As it happens, we didn’t lose out by not snaffling visits over our first two days here, having had a 24-hour sickness bug which we copped in overlapping doses: each of us has been out exploring the city for a while as the other slept off the bug. Here’s a thing though, if ever you need to ease yourself gently back into eating after a sickness bug, little and often rather than full meals, then tapas is the perfect route…

La Rambla is a continuous river of human sound against the hum of the city, changing its moods through the times of day and only really falling quiet in the last couple of hours before dawn. Excited daytime chatter moves effortlessly into evening buzz, when spikes of the raucous laughter of a stag party or the excited chatter of a “hen do” bring peaks of noise. Slow moving traffic creates a steady baseline purr while guys with pan pipes repeatedly play El Condor Pasa, waiting for a few euros to drop into their upturned hat. Somewhere around 3.30am La Rambla falls quiet, though it’s only a short hiatus before the new day is heralded by the bangs and clatter of the street cleaning teams.

Through all this the bells of various churches herald each quarter hour, sometimes the dominant sound, sometimes no more than a subtext to the city churn.

Away from the bigger tourist hotspots Barcelona has much to explore. The lanes of the Gothic Quarter around the old cathedral, the grandly named Cathedral Of The Holy Cross And Saint Eulalia, open out into small plazas and tight squares where the occasional old school wood panelled bar serves tapas the traditional way – small tasty portions at cheap prices. Such corners of the city are quieter but still of course busy: Barcelona is a crowded, heavily touristed place.

You don’t have to wander too far from La Rambla to find prices much lower, particularly on the western side, away from the cathedral. Move a couple of hundred yards down these lanes and you’ll find decent eateries at a fraction of the cost of the main areas – and you don’t feel out of the vibe in the slightest, these places are still lively.

Take nothing away from Plaça Real though, which may be another tourist spot with its popular restaurants and street entertainers, but which remains a great place to be: its high buildings with shuttered windows only marginally taller than the numerous palm trees, a combination which gives this square its perfect, quintessentially Spanish look. Here too Gaudi’s influence is present: Plaça Real’s lampposts were his first ever official commission.

Half way down La Rambla, Mercado de la Boqueria, a food market dating from 1840, survives to some degree unaltered. Yes sure it knows it’s in a tourist spot and has morphed into something appropriate, but it’s resisted the temptation to give in to tat and souvenir stalls and remains 100% a food market. The produce looks fabulous, though we guess the clientele is more likely to be airbnb guests than Barcelonians, locals wouldn’t pay these prices when it’s so much cheaper elsewhere.

Strolling towards our QR coded, app-controlled pre-ordained visit time to La Sagrada Familia, we stumble almost accidentally on a beautifully finished, ornate building which from a distance could be a giant mosque. It is nothing of the sort – this is La Monumental, the theatrical, atmospheric traditional home of bullfighting in Barcelona. Inside, the ring and its stands remain intact and pristine, within the stadium is a small museum tracing the history of matadors and the pageant which this spectacle once was.

We understand all the opinions of the animal cruelty lobby, but bullfighting is a wonderful part of the history of Spanish society, an essential piece of its story. What an event, what a pageant it must have been at its height, when matadors were akin to film stars and every occasion was a sell-out attended by a gleeful, engaged audience. We all know why things have moved on, but it’s a huge shame when traditions die.

Late on Thursday night the sounds of La Rambla are joined by a slapping noise which starts to sound like rippling applause, but is in fact huge raindrops slamming on to the paving outside. Lightning flashes and the streets are soon awash. Revelry ends early as everyone seeks shelter, for once the evening streets are empty, but the bells still chime, on through the night. Right up until the bangs and clatter of the street cleaning teams herald the start of a new day.

Barcelona And Antoni Gaudi

“Who knows where the road may lead us, only a fool would say

Who knows if we’ll meet along the way

Follow the brightest star as far as the brave may dare

What will we find when we get there”

Lyrics from “La Sagrada Familia” by the Alan Parsons Project

To visit Barcelona is to enter the world of Antoni Gaudi. What was he? Genius or nut job? Inspired or crazy? And what was his work? Flamboyantly brilliant or belligerently ostentatious? The bravest of designs or art for art’s sake? Inspired architecture or the world’s first Disneyland? Whatever your take on it, he still has everyone talking almost a century after his death. 

For our part, it’s beyond stunning. Gaudi’s work takes adventurous to a different level, is art on the grandest of scales, the depths of one man’s passion delivered on the most permanent of canvasses, none of which rules out the whimsical aspects which indisputably border on the ridiculous. Sublime meets surreal and returns to sublime.

Twenty or more years ago I used to be a regular visitor to Catalunya, and developed a theory as to why this particular environment gave rise to the likes of Gaudi, Joan Miro and others, avant garde pioneers in their individual fields. My theory was that the Catalan people, oppressed and deprived of their own nation and alienated from their own identity, desired recognition for being different and unique within whatever constraints were placed upon them, especially in Franco’s time. Such an environment would, I thought, be the perfect breeding ground for courageous artists (in that word’s broadest sense) to make the precise statement: “notice us Catalans, for we are different”, and for Catalan people to laud one of their own.

Gaudi was a sickly child who missed much schooling through ill health, but along the way developed an all-consuming passion for everything Catalan – so much so that in later life he broke protocol by refusing to speak to the King in Castilian Spanish, forcing the King to use an interpreter. When Gaudi was handed his degree in architecture, the Director stated: “We have given this academic title to either a fool or a genius. Only time will tell”.

Gaudi’s work reflects his love of nature, particularly the nature of the Mediterranean region, as well as his deep Catholic faith. His gargoyles are often contented lizards rather than snarling monsters, his pillars are pines, the broken-tile effect which we all know as a Gaudi trademark represents the skin of reptiles. He noted the lack of symmetry in nature, that no two shapes are identical, that no plane or curve is perfect, and brought this in notable style to his work: there isn’t, for instance, a single 90-degree angle in the entire Sagrada Familia structure.

La Sagrada Familia is moving into its final phase, more than 140 years after construction began. Gaudi took over as chief architect one year into the project and put together a design and construction plan which he knew from the outset would last way beyond his lifetime. In those 140 years only the Spanish Civil War and COVID have halted works completely, but the entire project is now making faster strides towards completion somewhere around 2030, thanks in part to technological advances.

Outside, La Sagrada Familia is adorned with imagery, religious icons and Mediterranean wildlife, the more you study its undulating shapes, the more you see. The different facades and the individual, incredible spires each tell a story, each has a dedication. Inside, one is delivered into a fantasy world of art, architecture, religion, humour and innovation, all beautifully integrated: this place is fast becoming one of the World’s must-see buildings. It has moved on considerably since I last came here around 20 years ago – if you’ve been before, then come again, it is a different place today. And it is fabulous.

Look up towards the ceiling: support pillars are giant pine trees, the ceiling is the forest canopy. Sunlight plays through stained glass and skylights, reproducing the dappled sunlight of the forests, those pillars are asymmetrical and uneven, everything irregular, every last item able to be interpreted as something it isn’t. It’s a marvellous, stunning fantasy world without ever betraying Gaudi’s devotion to the Catholic faith.

Progress with construction meant that La Sagrada Familia was finally consecrated in 2010 by Pope Benedict XVI, some 127 years into the building programme. Gaudi’s dream is within touching distance of becoming reality.

And so to another Gaudi masterpiece. Parc Guell still packs a considerable visual punch with its seemingly endless ability to surprise and delight, not to mention to make you say “how did he even think of that?!”. Gaudi’s signature multi-coloured broken tile mosaics adorn benches, walls and statues, elevated walkways sit on misshapen viaducts which are disguised as tree roots and rock formations, tight corners lead to unexpected panoramic views. Roofs of alfresco hallways are supported by pillars where only some are vertical – the rest are slightly off kilter – then suddenly one pillar is absent altogether, creating a lack of symmetry which simultaneously confuses and pleases the eye.

Finally to Casa Battló. If anyone is considering a trip to visit Gaudi’s works, then save Casa Battló till last, for this is where, with absolute freedom to explore his own mind, Gaudi was let off whatever leashes he had ever been held back by. Paid by a rich family of considerable social standing who had recently acquired the Passeig de Gracia property, Gaudi set about creating something which must surely be one of the most incredible private dwellings on Earth. 

The natural world again dominates, but this time is complemented by marine themes which take the visitor on a remarkable journey. Whatever was this house like: what a stunning place for the family Battló to host those society parties. Gaudi augmented his outlandish themes with clever use of light and space, never forgetting the ostentatious: the huge picture windows which overlook the street weren’t just unheard of, they enabled the family to show off to even the highest levels of society. 

Casa Battló is a searching look into Gaudi’s mind, the modern day visit with audio guide is seriously well put together. La Sagrada Familia, Parc Guell and Casa Battló are of course not the only Gaudi creations to see in Barcelona, but they are three which leave you spellbound. We leave the last of the three just a little bit stunned, and understanding Gaudi’s weird and wonderful mind not one bit more than we had at the outset. It’s not easy to see inside the mind of someone who can think, and design, on this scale.

Gaudi died in 1926. Having at one time been a dandy within Barcelona society, his life had come to be dominated by the Sagrada Familia project, during which time he went from sporting the finest clothes to living almost recluse-like, unmarried, maintaining relationships with only his closest of friends. He became, reportedly, arrogant and dismissive towards all but those chosen few.

So disheveled was his appearance by now that when Gaudi was struck by a tram and fell unconscious in the street, he was mistaken for a sleeping beggar and ignored by passers-by. Once in hospital, only rudimentary treatment was administered for the same reason. By the time a friend located him, and his identity became known to the medics, it was too late, and Gaudi died within three days.

The public lined the streets of the city for Gaudi’s funeral. His death may have been ignominious, but his life and achievements were celebrated with joy. And they still are, almost a century later.

Evoking Memories On The Spanish Costa

I open my eyes to find the first light of day creeping into the room; Michaela is still soundly asleep by my side. I turn to look out at the new day. Pale pastel shades of sunrise decorate the horizon with colours too delicate for the camera but pleasing on the eye. The rippled surface of the sea rolls gently towards me, kissing the shore below with a gentle, rhythmic swoosh which is more like a layer of peace than a layer of sound.

Laying in bed listening to the waves. Surely one of life’s great pleasures.

We couldn’t control our broad smiles as we got off the train and saw what is now before us, this is just fitting the bill completely. The train station is right on the beach, sand and blue sea one side, whitewashed buildings climbing the hillside on the other. To our right the sand stretches off towards a beach bar, the other way the surf curves round to a rocky, pine-clad headland. In between the two, the small town nestles in the sunshine.

You see, you can’t do a trip around the Med without “doing the Med”, and we always intended to calm the pace of this trip with breaks at the coast. Mini holidays within the long journey, if you like. Such a thing is not without certain obstacles in Spain: what we really don’t want is a stop in an ersatz city rammed with high rise hotels and club music throbbing in a town created by tourism where the whole Costa del Brit thing is in full swing.

We’re not, though, kidding ourselves that we’ll find a secret undiscovered fishing village where the locals have never heard of tourism, such a place no longer exists and we aren’t fool enough to be chasing that particular shadow. Somewhere in between those extremes there’ll be something great, and the small town of Sant Pol de Mar ticks a lot of our boxes. There’s no high rise, there is still a rough-around-the-edges look and feel to the place – and just a handful of restaurants, catering for visitors from the city.

Just an hour north of Barcelona on the train but slightly too far south to be on the Costa Brava, Sant Pol is obviously more of a day trip destination than a magnet for package holidays and so retains at least some of the character we were seeking. But there is a special reason, one of nostalgia, which is the real trigger for our beaming smiles as we alight the train and take our first look around.

You see, we are reliving our respective childhoods – we both enjoyed holidays in Spain as children; me in the 1960s long before mass travel and package deals (my Dad must have been brave with our Mum and us three kids in tow – we used to come all the way by train), Michaela a bit later in the early 70s (sometimes by air, sometimes by road). Some of the first things we see here in Sant Pol just bring those happy memories flooding back: the pine trees on the headland, the blue of the Med, the curve of the bay…even the railway track running along the back of the beach. We are fortunate to have travelled as children, lucky to have these memories.

Life has changed immeasurably for everyone since 1963, but to come here and find that there are enough signs of familiarity to bring those memories racing back is such a lovely feeling. I suddenly find myself wishing my Dad was still alive, just so I could tell him. I’d tell him that the milk is still creamy, the beer is still cold and gassy, the fruit is still extra juicy, and the tomatoes still taste of sunshine. I am almost tempted to buy a football.

Our suspicions of Sant Pol’s status as a place for city dwellers’ days out is soon confirmed. Saturday evening, the platform for the train back to Barcelona is hilariously rammed with people – that’s going to be one seriously crowded train – but by Monday morning the beaches are quiet and there is plenty of personal space. They’ve nearly all gone back to their schools and offices and only a relative handful remain.

The trouble for us is, the good folk of the city seem to have taken the sunshine with them: with the beach pretty much the only thing in town, we are left sitting on the balcony watching choppy grey seas under equally grey skies for a big chunk of Monday. While we’re doing this, the media back home in the UK would have the population believe that the whole of southern Europe is under some kind of infernal purgatory in which everyone is fearing for their life. Here in little Sant Pol de Mar, it’s well short of 30 degrees and the locals are complaining of a slow start to the summer, not of imminent hellfire and damnation.

Tuesday morning teases with a little glimpse of the Spanish summers we remember from childhood – cloudless sky, crystal clear sea – but it proves to be nothing more than a tease and by mid morning the sky is once again a deep shade of grey. It’s funny, these reminders of those holidays years ago are great, but the biggest memory of all, those endless days of guaranteed hot sunshine, is conspicuous by its absence. We called in here for a brief Mediterranean beach break and copped two dull days which are definitely not hot by anyone’s judgement. Heatwave? What heatwave??

Still, it’s been a nice little interlude and a welcome pause to a full-on trip, and the memories it’s evoked are great ones. Nostalgia rocks. And we like Sant Pol de Mar. We like its ordinariness. We move away from the coast again now to a very different destination, one which has one characteristic which is unique in the world. More of that later.

I do think though that the experience of all this has been getting to Michaela a bit, on the evidence of the following conversation as we studied the menus in a Sant Pol restaurant:

“Hey”, she says, “look at the word they’ve used to describe this dish – ‘monkish’. Do you think that means it’s a traditional Catalan recipe with its origins in the monasteries?”

“No, dear. I think they’ve missed the “f” out of monkfish”. 

A-Z In A Day: From Andorra to Zaragoza

There’s a proper mountain air feel to our last morning in Andorra La Vella, bright blue skies but crisp air, locals hunched in jackets and jeans as they make their way through town. From the window at breakfast it has the look of a Spring morning in the Alps and it’s odd to think that at the other end of our relatively short journey today temperature may be well into the 30s. 

It’s a couple of hours on the bus from Andorra to Lleida followed by an extraordinarily comfortable, and fast, train ride to Zaragoza. Sporting our backpacks and wearing our heavy hiking shoes, we suppose the taxi driver’s question is understandable:

“You here to walk the camino?”

“Whoa, no way”, replies Michaela, “we’re here to drink wine and eat tapas”. He chuckles, and takes it upon himself to helpfully point out some of Zaragoza’s main sights on the way to our apartment. In ten minutes he is more engaging than anyone in Andorra was at any point.

Zaragoza is hit virtually every day of the year by the “cierzo”, a strong wind which blows in from the Atlantic and hits the city at full speed as it rips along the route of the Ebro river. Given that Zaragoza endures quite cold winters with regular frosts (frost….Spain…two words you don’t normally find in the same sentence), the cierzo can give winter days a “feels like” temperature of up to (down to?) minus 15.

The wind is certainly here as we first explore the city, but is thankfully cooling the heat of summer rather than freezing our nuts off. Zaragoza is Spain’s fifth largest city, but with most of its major sights clustered around the compact old town, it’s possible to spend a few days here without feeling at any time that you’re in a big sprawl. El Tubo, the old town area, is as atmospheric as it gets, with multiple tapas bars and mini plazas tucked within the labyrinth which gets lively before 8pm and carries on until way past our bedtime.

What’s impossible to miss whether or not pointed out by a friendly cabbie, is the Basilica del Pilar, an exotic and giant complex which sits between the Ebro and the huge, classy main square, dominating the skyline and providing unmissable photo opportunities both from on the Puente de Piedra (Stone Bridge) or from the opposite bank of the Ebro. The Basilica is said to be the spiritual home of Hispanic peoples and as such is a pilgrimage destination for Spanish speaking Catholics from across the globe.

It’s a huge place, its baroque towers pointing skywards with true majesty. Whilst this is undoubtedly the most impressive of Zaragoza’s sights, the other buildings surrounding the vast Plaza del Pilar are not without considerable grandeur themselves: the Cathedral San Salvador aka Cathedral La Seo and the Town Hall are almost as magnificent. These three and the remaining sides of the huge rectangular plaza together make an impressive setting.

Zaragoza boasts a history of 2,000+ years, parts of which can be unearthed just by wandering around the old city. Remains of the Roman city of Caesaraugusta, forerunner of Zaragoza and the root of its name (say it quickly a few times, you’ll get there), can be found in the shape of an amphitheatre, sections of the city walls and the Carmen Gate.

The later Muslim conquest of Spain saw Zaragoza become a major centre and heralded construction of the Aljafería Palace which today bears all the hallmarks of Muslim art and architecture. These major sights, and others throughout the city, are great examples of Aragonese Mudéjar architecture, said to be borne out of the tolerances of different faiths, and the co-existence of, particularly, Muslim and Christian. The result is a series of ornate brickwork patterns on numerous buildings, very pleasing on the eye and somewhat reminiscent of the brickwork we saw in southern Tunisia last year.

The cathedral houses a large and impressive museum of ancient tapestries; the interiors of both the cathedral and the basilica are cavernous and magnificent. Exploring the Aljaferia Palace interior is not quite so exciting: the palace has been extensively renovated both internally and externally and the interior now serves as the seat of the autonomous Aragon parliament. It’s still a fascinating place round which to wander, but only relatively small sections are original and the rest feels more like a museum than an ancient site.

Zaragoza celebrates two figures above all others: its founder Caesar Augustus and its favourite artistic son, Francisco Goya. Many statues and sculptures commemorating both are dotted around the city, but unfortunately the Goya Museum is closed throughout our visit.

It’s an interesting thought too that, in terms of the evolution of history, we are, whilst in Zaragoza, at what in a way is the place where the seed was sown for the Church Of England to be born. Zaragoza is the capital of Aragon, and of course it was in order to facilitate Henry VIII’s divorce from Catherine, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Aragon, that the split from Rome came about and the Church of England was founded. Amusing then that we spot a self-styled “English pub” called the Canterbury Tavern as we stroll around town.

El Tubo is so alive at night, its alleys packed with revellers into the early hours, its renowned tapas bars doing brisk business for long periods – though not in the afternoon, as being in Zaragoza is like being in Spain always has been, in that siesta still rules and almost everything is quiet between 2 and 4.30pm. Public buildings, even the major sights, close, roller shutters come down over shops, bars and restaurants close the doors, and for a couple of hours nearly everyone sleeps.

Food wise, the tapas here are reputedly slightly different from elsewhere in Spain, and, according to the city’s own literature, a gastronomic treat – yet we find it all rather disappointing. Much of the tapas is “tempura”, a by-word for shoving in a deep fat fryer and serving in an off putting layer of batter, and a lot of the rest is served on a chunky piece of bread the size of half a paving slab. It’s all rather larger and heavier than the delicate dishes we think of as tapas.

And so it’s time once again to move on and leave the visually exciting city of Zaragoza behind, pick up a hire car and continue our journey through the different elements of Spain. A special area beckons…

Vinos, Caminos & Pintxos: The Small Town Of Haro

Much of the drive from Zaragoza is through nondescript territory, interior Spain at its flattest and most arid with the occasional industrial complex or giant warehouse thrown in for good measure. Then with almost comical precision the vineyards begin at the very moment we pass the “La Rioja” provincial sign and pretty soon we are looking out at picturesque hilltop villages crowned by a soaring church spire and/or the turrets of a castle. This is exactly the scenery we have come here to explore.

Ignoring the temptation to dive into other villages too soon, we head straight to our next destination of Haro, arriving too early to check in to our apartment and so heading first for the main square. It’s love at first sight: again, this is exactly what we were looking and hoping for from our first Rioja base. A sign on the town hall balcony proclaims “Haro: Capital of Rioja”, as does the iron plaque out front. A large mural depicts drunken men being led away by a smiling policeman.

This is, after all, the epicentre of the Rioja wine industry, the place where once a year, at the end of the grape harvest, the entire population comes out into town and spends the day throwing huge quantities of red wine over each other. This bizarre event is depicted in murals and statues around town – what a crazy day it must be. We can only wonder how or why the streets aren’t permanently stained red. 

Settling down for our first beer (yes, beer rather than wine, we need a throat charmer first), the signoras-what-lunch at the next table are drinking a strange looking drink the colour of watered down Coca-Cola. When we ask the bustling owner what it is, he tells us it’s a Vermouth made locally in Haro which everybody drinks as an alternative to the obvious, and then he proceeds to pour us a huge glassful to share and tells us it’s our “welcome to Haro” gift. Oh don’t we just love a freebie.

Next, our host Pedro meets us outside the house with a beaming smile, an outstretched hand, a bundle of maps and a wealth of information on where to go, what to do, where to eat and drink and then marks on the maps all the wineries which he recommends to visit.

“Anything you want”, he smiles on leaving, “call me. I am always in Haro”. What a welcome all round. Hello Haro, hello Rioja.

The idea of this part of our journey through Spain is that we will have two separate bases within the Rioja wine region and explore the different parts of the province from each – visiting the picturesque villages by day and returning to base for wine and food each night. Daytime visits to the bodegas aren’t such a good idea when driving.

It works well – the area is of course dominated by wine production and all that goes with it, but a lot of these towns and villages are also on, or close to, the famous Camino de Santiago de Compostela. At various points we see what appear to be long distance trekkers passing through, or arriving in, towns – but with afternoon temperatures creeping up towards 40C we’re not convinced they’ve chosen the right time of year to do it.

In the town of Najera, the Santa Maria la Real monastery, easily the largest building in the old town, was built in the late 16th century specifically to bring pilgrims to the town as they made their way along the camino, offering a sanctuary of peace and reflection as well as a bed for the night. Najera is on the “Camino Francés”, one of the five converging camino routes.

Najera is a town of two distinct halves: the new, very ordinary city on one side of the river and the old, much more appealing town snuggled between river and mountains on the other. There is little uniformity in the villages we visit, some are functional and surprisingly modern, others wonderfully photogenic from afar but, once within the streets, seem to be in a permanent state of siesta.

Standing out from all the rest are two small towns which are everything we expected from the Rioja region and then some. One is our home base of Haro which is turning out to be the perfect homestead to return to every day; the other is across the border in the adjoining province of Alava. This is the perfectly formed, perfectly positioned town of Laguardia in Basque Country, so completely beautiful that we know we have to make a second visit before we move on.

Laguardia presents the idyllic hilltop vista, but Haro is for sure the perfect base – it has the main square, the hillside cobbled streets where wine bars dominate, secondary plazas and gorgeous old buildings, but it also has an outer layer of ordinary town where bodegas invite visitors to imbibe and the town gives everything back and makes life easy. And then….and then, you wander into a wine bar and the pintxos are spread out along the bar. And you swoon.

Oh, pintxos, where have you been all my life?! Actually, I first came across pintxos on a blokey football trip to Bilbao a few years ago, and have wanted Michaela to share the experience ever since, so it’s with considerable delight that we discover that the tradition extends into the Rioja region. Pintxos are smaller than tapas, designed to be eaten one at a time with each round of drinks.

But pintxos are no ordinary, predictable snack. Inspired combinations, magical flavour pairings, daring texture clashes, 1- or 2-bite explosions of flavour where each one is an adventure and a surprise. Go to the bar, order your wine and point to the pintxos you want, and don’t ever ask what it is, just wait to be amazed and delighted. This is surely the best way to eat in the entire culinary world – you end each day having had a huge variety of flavours and never need to go looking for a large meal. And it’s an understatement to say it’s inexpensive!

Oh my God, pintxos ROCK!! It’s a delight to be reacquainted with them, a double delight to see Michaela fall in love with them in just the way I did. Rioja and pintxos for a week. Does it get any better than this!?

You have to watch these car rental companies, they can he sneaky little devils, lots of nasty “extra cost” tricks up their sleeve. This one (Hertz, to name and shame), has tried two, one of which was to claim the car was free from damage when we collected it, leaving us to go back into the office armed with photos of the sizeable gouge down one side. On our guard, we are keen to keep the vehicle as clean as possible ahead of return so there can be no dispute over the extent of damage – so we’re not too amused when overnight we get one of those rainfalls full of desert sand which leaves every car in town looking like a leopard with chickenpox.

Undeterred, we head out into the lanes for one last sortie from Haro, aiming for Sajazarra, described as one of the most beautiful villages in Spain and in fact recognised as such by its accreditation on “los pueblos mas bonitos de España”, an official list of same. It’s definitely worthy of that accolade, with its honey coloured houses bunched around a castle-like structure about which we can find virtually nothing. It’s a truly lovely spot with a restaurant big enough to suggest the village gets frequent busloads of visitors. A consequence of being on the “bonitos” list, possibly.

From the road near Sajazarra we can see another, even smaller village perched right up on the hills beneath soaring limestone peaks. It looks an amazing setting. Creeping into its baking, quiet streets, we find activity in the church, where villagers are putting the finishing touches to preparations for the weekend’s fiesta in honour of St Mary’s Day, to whom the church is dedicated. Spain does love its fiestas.

This second, tiny village is the precipitous Cellorigo, from where the views across the vineyards and plains are spectacular. At the very moment we turn to gaze upwards at the peaks instead of down across the land, a giant eagle soars majestically from behind the rocks and circles above us, scanning the parched grasses for its next meal.

This has been a great first half to the Rioja adventure. Delightful explorations by day, great wine and food in lovely Haro by night – everything just as we had hoped but perhaps even better than that.

We return to the car to leave Haro on Saturday morning. The car’s newly acquired coating of dust has been beautifully enhanced by a large finger drawing of an oversized set of male genitalia. We need to find a car wash. It might not be appropriate to have a large phallic drawing on our car, given that our next overnight stay is in a convent, of all places.

Santo Domingo de la Calzada: Not The Jewel In The Crown

Leaving Haro behind on a Saturday morning, we head not in the direction of our next stay but instead the opposite way, in order to enjoy one last visit to the village of Laguardia. Like Sajazarra, Laguardia is on the official “bonitos” list of the prettiest villages in Spain, and if anywhere deserves such an accreditation it’s this perfect little place nestled on its hill. It really is lovely.

Our next move is not a huge one as we stay within La Rioja region, now in a different location from which to explore the other half of the province. Santo Domingo de la Calzada is a significant point on the famous Camino de Santiago Compostela, a resting point for pilgrims and hikers for centuries – in fact, this ancient town owes its very existence to the pilgrims’ route.

In the 11th century, a hermit named Dominic, later to be St Dominic (Santo Domingo) made his home by the river here in order to help pilgrims passing by en route to Compostela – first chapels and then a town grew up around him. Monasteries and convents were relocated here to augment the level of care for those pilgrims, growing the town poco a poco. Today the Camino passes through the heart of town, past the large cathedral and its splendid free standing bell tower and past the famous pilgrims’ inn (Albergue de Peregrinos) which still serves the purpose which its name suggests, to this day.

Within the cathedral, at an elevated level, is a glass showcase incongruously housing a live rooster and a live hen strutting around a few feet above the pews; the same pairing features on the town’s coat of arms, all the result of a legend surrounding Saint Dominic. Having resurrected from death a pilgrim who had been sentenced to hang after being wrongly accused of theft, the Saint then faced a sceptical magistrate who doubted he possessed such miraculous powers. Dominic, in order to demonstrate said powers, resurrected the baked rooster and hen which the magistrate was about to devour for his dinner. That taught him. Imagine the chaos if it’d been paella.

Of the millions who undertake the task of completing the Camino (kudos and respect to those of our blogging friends who have done so), their motivation can be for a multitude of reasons, but of course for many it is a deeply religious experience. With this town being such an intrinsic part of the Camino’s history, it’s therefore just a little odd to come out of the revered cathedral and find rock ballads being piped around town – the likes of REM and Stevie Nicks serenading the devout, the pilgrims and the hikers in equal measure. If at any point we hear Errol Brown churning out “I Believe In Miracles”, then we will know that someone somewhere is having a laugh. 

Those brave souls tackling the camino and overnighting in Santo Domingo are fairly obvious: if they’re not limping to dinner in flip flops or even barefoot despite the chilly air, they’re dipping sore feet in the cold waters of fountains and waiting for the pain to subside. We find ourselves feeling for every one of them and wholeheartedly hoping they reach their goal. 

Here in Santo Domingo we are staying in what was once one of those convents, now converted into part hotel, part church and part exhibition hall. The hotel section is, like another in town, a state owned “parador” – paradors are usually heritage buildings such as monasteries preserved by Government by such conversion, making them interesting and evocative places to stay. This parador is just such a place, reasonably priced apart from the crazy 18 euros per person which they want for breakfast when we’re getting a more than adequate one for less than 4 euros each just down the street.

If we’re honest, Santo Domingo de la Calzada is pretty dull. Away from the old town, which you can walk in its entirety in about ten minutes, there is little of interest and the place is nowhere near as attractive as the other places we’ve visited. Apartment blocks easily outnumber ancient buildings and we imagine that those pilgrims on the Camino are fairly content to get up and move on straight after breakfast.

In complete contrast the nearby town of Ezcaray is absolutely lovely, with a whole network of characterful streets, beautiful old houses and inviting restaurants, as well as a relaxing riverfront walk popular with strollers and sun worshippers alike. Just as we’re falling out of love with Santo Domingo, we discover Ezcaray and immediately have a bout of location envy. Our lack of enthusiasm for Domingo isn’t helped by its apparent micro climate which sees grey skies and cool air last until around midday, the sun only making an appearance in the afternoon. Evenings are breezily cool too.

No matter how early in the morning we push ourselves out of the parador and along the chilly main drag, there’s invariably already somebody on the alcohol. Next to that family sinking croissants and downing café con leche, there’s a couple of old boys with an Estrella Damm; waiters darting out with breakfast trays place glasses of Rioja Crianza before eager ladies without batting an eyelid. When I see such things back home, usually outside a Wetherspoons, I benevolently picture that the imbibers have just finished a gruelling night shift. It’s hard to have quite such generous thoughts here, it’s more just a way of life.

Our final road trip out of “Domingo” takes us southwards towards the edge of the Sierra del Pradilla, to another pilgrimage town, San Millan de la Cogolla. Here the landscape sees the Rioja vineyards exchanged for golden wheat and barley fields, crops already harvested and the bare stalks crisping in the hot sun. Pine and deciduous trees clad the rolling hills in a variety of greens creating delightfully different scenery.

San Millan de la Cogolla is home to two famed monasteries with the slightly quirky names of Yuso and Suso. The former, Yuso, is a huge rambling complex which, architecturally, forms a grand focal point within the pleasing landscape and dominates the bottom of the valley in which it sits. We can only visit the interior by joining an official tour group, and unfortunately the entire hour long tour is in Spanish, a shame because consequently we learn little, apart from its claim that Yuso is the birthplace of the Spanish language itself. It’s a fabulous place though, regardless.

Suso is much smaller, way up the side of the valley: we opt to walk rather than cop out with the shuttle bus and enjoy a really pleasant ramble through the forests, the smell of hot pines in our nostrils for the first time in a couple of weeks. We meet not a single human, but come face to face with a young fox who seems momentarily startled by our presence before scampering off into the undergrowth.

From here we drive to Baños de Rio Tobia, which sounds attractive but is as industrial as anywhere we’ve seen in La Rioja. From the 10-storey building sporting giant letters “SASA JAMONES” and the concrete pigs at the entrance to the town, we deduce that this is a place which turns live animals into succulent dinners – in fact a little bit of research tells us it’s a renowned source of quality chorizo. 

After Baños de la Tobia the undulating road brings us to Badaran, where the whole town seems to be out celebrating – the lunchtime drink and tapas is well underway and for some it’s probably advisable to be heading for that siesta bed  pretty soon. There’s a reason for the revelry: today is August 15th, the Virgin Mary’s Day Of Assumption and posters around town tell us that these guys are on Day 3 of a 7-day fest. It’s also a national holiday throughout Spain today.

The chatty guy behind the bar in Badaran is seriously amused that two Brits have bowled up in his bar in the middle of the fiesta and falls over himself in his attempt to cobble together two glasses of Ambar and a plate of patatas bravas. He screws his face up and searches the depths of his memory to come up with some English:

“Nice to meet you”, he finally blurts, and looks so, so pleased with himself. Smiles all round.

Returning to Santo Domingo via a back door road, the town’s own industrial side is obvious from this angle: it’s not wine here, it’s not even chorizo…it’s potatoes. Dozens of lorries are parked up for the holiday, stacks of crates form a mini Manhattan skyline and giant posters tell us that these are the best spuds in Spain. 

For us now, La Rioja is done and we’re moving on. In truth we’re not overly concerned about leaving Santo Domingo behind, although the Rioja region as a whole has been terrific. Without doubt we’re ready for a move now, a change of scene is needed. It’s time to hit the coast.

Tarragona: Heart And Soul Of Catalunya

It is with an absolute, unbridled delight that I discover that nothing much has changed. Plaça de la Font is absolutely alive, almost every table at every restaurant taken, a stage set up in front of the grand Town Hall in readiness for tonight’s show of traditional dancing, the atmospheric square packed with families where small children, teenagers and grandparents mix as if socialising with all ages is the most natural thing on Earth. It’s gone 11pm and the children still have boundless energy as they ride stabilised bikes, burst balloons and indulge in games of chase.

This is Tarragona, a place I have visited many, many times before and fell completely in love with in a previous life, during the 2000s. It is a city with everything, including a scruffy ordinariness and a self sufficient economy, where there is no concern or care over whether or not any foreign tourists come to spend money. I have always adored the fact that you never quite feel part of it: Tarragona is a rare opportunity to peep through a window into the private life of Spain, of Catalunya, and see how their world really is, without the overbearing influence of mass tourism.

OK so there is now an English translation on the menus where there used to be only Catalan first and Castillian Spanish second, but precious little else has changed. This is their town, their secret, kept for themselves with no selling of the tourist soul, and it still feels as wonderful as it ever did. We are spoken to in Catalan, nobody asks us where we’re from, nobody asks us which football team we support. 

I got very used to all this in the 2000s and visited many times over the course of a few years – this is Michaela’s first time. I learnt the city’s quirks, its hills and its hidden gems, even developed an affinity for the local football team, timing my visits to coincide with home matches and taking my seat in the “Gol Sud” end. The club’s nickname is Nastic – my sons and I, and a few others, became the self-styled “Nastikers Inglès”.

In fact my original association with Tarragona goes back even further, as I first came here as a child on a family holiday in the 1960s. Many reading this will not be old enough to remember life in the 60s, but travel was significantly different back then. Crossing the border from France into General Franco’s fascist Spain meant being shepherded by armed guards, guns at the ready – guards who opened every suitcase and rifled through our stuff. Only when they chalked an “X” on the case could we breathe a sigh of relief and pass through.

“We’re in Spain now”, Dad would say, though at my young age I couldn’t quite grasp how we could change countries inside a single railway station building. In Tarragona back then, the walls of every building throughout the city had, every few yards, a simple white poster with bold black writing, on every building in every street. Each one read, simply, “FRANCO FRANCO FRANCO”. The Rambla Nova had been renamed El Generalissimo. Fascists were ruling Spain with an iron grip and seeking to crush Catalans completely, a time when simply speaking in Catalan was punishable by imprisonment.

Returning for regular visits in the 2000s was, though, a revelation. Tarragona, unlike so much of the Spanish Med, had opted for commerce over tourism, clinging fiercely to its status as the beating heart of the Catalan spirit, and had become a thriving, independent community, one where the visitor could play a part, but never become a part. Now, in 2023, it feels absolutely wonderful to discover that things really haven’t changed that much: this is still a place where life…..goes on.

And yet Tarragona has riches sufficient to make it a destination for any inquisitive traveller: ancient city walls, spectacular Roman ruins including an amphitheatre by the sea, golden beaches meeting the deep blue Med and the “Balcó del Mediterrani”, a unique promenade way above the sea with its huge views across the blue. The ripped backsides of Tarragona’s industry and docklands are hidden from view by the hills and the curve of the coastline, but its tight streets with lofty tenements and washing lines hung from balconies are on full display for all to see. It’s all so…real.

As “Tarragona time” approached, I worked hard on playing down expectations, it’s a long time since I’ve been here and I wanted to avoid over selling Tarragona to Michaela – after all, we’ve been to a lot of terrific places since we’ve been together and I am much more well travelled since those visits in the 2000s. Yet I needn’t have worried – Tarragona is as splendid as I remembered and Michaela is quickly hooked.

Turn a blind corner of a street and you may be confronted by another section of the ancient city walls, or the columns of the Roman forum, a medieval burial site – or a mural depicting Tarragona’s splendid and colourful history. Being here is like being in a mini Rome. The giant, expansively decorated cathedral sits proudly atop the central hill, still guarding over the faithful residents as it has for centuries, the steps on its approach curved and polished by the footfall of centuries.

But in amongst these quintessentially Spanish streets with their multiple overhanging balconies, in amongst the unexpected plazas and their larger partners, down the Rambla and along the Balcó, the true beating heart of Tarragona is its people and their traditions. This city is the soul of Catalunya.

Every September, Tarragona is host to the Fiesta de Santa Tecla, by some considerable distance the craziest, most hedonistic fiesta I have attended – so far, anyway. It’s a loud, indulgent, incessant week – but, as we are to discover this time with great serendipity, it isn’t by any means the only party of the year. It’s possible to get the feeling that the gaps between fiestas are shorter than the fiestas themselves. This week we catch the end of the feast of the Virgin Mary (Fiesta de Sant Magi) then when it ends it’s….well, it’s the weekend. May as well have another fiesta.

Tarragona lays claim to being the birthplace of one of the most endearing and exciting features of Catalan culture, the castellers, or human towers: such a fantastic spectacle to witness. This time we don’t catch a full performance at the fiesta, but we do see an hour of practice outside the cathedral. Even the practice session is brilliant though short on the drama of the real thing when the baying crowd roars its appreciation, but there’s still a considerable thrill at the crowning moment when the small child scales right to the top, raises a triumphant arm, then slides down the other side.

As the place of its origin, Tarragona remains the epicentre of the casteller scene, a scene which extends throughout Spanish Catalunya. For spectators like us, the point where the child reaches the top of the tower is a real heart-in-mouth moment – goodness only knows how the Mum and Dad feel.

Fiestas throughout Spain are never complete without the parades, most often featuring music, costumes, firecrackers, rifle shots and other random local traditions. All of these are here, including the “gigantes” and “negritos” with their slightly haunting faces and the remarkable ability to dance despite being 15 feet tall. The party finally winds down somewhere after 3am, just in time for the start of preparations for the next one. Tarragona is alive and bouncing every night of its life – no wonder these guys still take their siesta seriously, life here is breathless.

Amid all this fiesta it’s almost possible to overlook the absorbing history of Tarragona which lurks in the sections of ancient city walls, in the amphitheatre and on the decorative balconies of its houses. Its Roman name of Tarraco is still widely used: this was for years the winter home of Emperor Augustus, expanded and fortified during Roman occupation and developed into the wealthiest Iberian coastal town of that time.

Evidence of that time is all over the city, in its walls and fortifications, its forum and amphitheatre, which together add up to another UNESCO World Heritage site – there’s been quite a few of those on this trip. A short bus ride out of town brings us to the Ferreres Aqueduct, aka Pont del Diable (Devil’s Bridge), a beautifully preserved double-height construction spanning what is now a dry gorge – like Pont du Gard, a magnificent sight and yet more evidence of Roman ingenuity when it comes to the movement of water.

Tarragona has an absorbing past, and a fabulous, vibrant present. What a great place it is. A place which just keeps on giving.

After a gap of about twenty years it has been so thoroughly enjoyable to come back to this vibrant city-with-everything and find that so little of its character has changed. The constant mood of fiesta may make this one of the liveliest cities you’ll ever visit – don’t come here if you need early nights – the whole feel is still that Tarragona is Spanish, is Catalan, absorbed in its own way of life which will continue to be handed down through the generations. It’s fascinating to think that some of the young adults engaged in this carnival atmosphere, were the children which I might have seen on my last visits, now playing their part in the community in exactly the way that their parents and grandparents did – while their own children are now the ones watching the processions with wide-eyed awe. And thinking, “one day, when I’m old enough…”

And it’s been brilliant to find that I still love this place. Even better that Michaela has now also fallen under its spell. I’m not actually sure that we want to leave. Let’s just check Nastic’s fixture list….

Crowded Beaches And An Antipope: Heading Further South

The morning temperature as we leave Tarragona seems to have ramped up, all is still and the Med is a flat calm mirror of the sky, sunlight sequins glinting across its surface. Tranquility now reigns where yesterday the fiesta brought verve, the only ones buzzing with activity now are the army of street cleaners removing the final evidence of revelry.

It’s even hotter as we step off the train further south, and the trudge with backpacks up the steep hills and steps to our next accommodation is a bit of a tester – we are both pouring with sweat by the time we finally open the door to our new apartment. Cold beer is calling, but first there’s other business to attend to – Michaela needs a haircut. While the peluquera is doing her stuff, I wander off to take a look around our new town.

In truth, we don’t arrive with massively high hopes for Peñiscola, this is a coastal pause on our journey southwards, a couple of rest days in what will most likely be a tourist trap. And as I take a wander along the seafront, the beach is certainly rammed full, in fact it’s more than a bit comical to see just how many bodies are stretched out on the sand or wading in the shallows. It’s noticeable though that most of the chatter seems to be Spanish, maybe this is a domestic rather than international holiday destination.

It soon becomes clear though that Peñiscola (that little squiggle above the “n” is important in order to avoid an unfortunate mispronunciation!), has a bit more to offer than your typical Costa Beachtown. The main town spreads along the very long beach which curves all the way to the next town of Benicarlo a few miles to the north, golden sand and blue sea all the way. But in the centre of Peñiscola a pan-shaped promontory juts out to sea, on top of which stand the remains of a castle and, a little way below, castle walls cleverly built into the natural rock.

We have chosen to stay up here, in an apartment between the walls and the castle, rather than settling down in the main town – hence the steep climb “home”. The area just below the castle and above the walls is almost like being in an ancient citadel, a formerly fortified community where the natural enclosed position on the rock means that no buildings can be substantially altered. At night, the hilly streets of this little area come alive as alley ways fill with tables, opened shutters reveal tapas bars and modest street lighting adds a certain extra allure. Not only is it like a citadel, this little quarter reminds us strongly of a Greek island chora. A Greek island feel in an old Spanish town is pretty much a recipe for charm.

The views from the town and beach, across the blue waters to the castle on the hill are spectacular, but the view from our apartment is equally lovely, looking back from our elevated position over to the town where the evening lights reflect in the Med. The “pan handle” leading out to us has beaches on either side; Peñiscola rises inland to a point even higher than us. It’s all very picturesque despite the presence of some chunky hotels along the front.

Peñiscola castle was one of several in Southern Spain which were surrendered from Muslim rule and relinquished to the Kingdom of Aragon in the 13th century, then handed in 1294 to the Knights Templar who in turn developed the castle further whilst planning to create a kingdom based on the town. Much of what we see today is the restored design of the Knights Templar period. However a yet more intriguing history was to unfold inside the castle’s sturdy walls.

During the split in the Catholic church known as the Western Schism which led to the papacy relocating from the Vatican to Avignon (we mentioned this in our post from Avignon), Benedict XIII was elected as Pope by supporters of the Avignon faction but was never universally accepted. Despite subsequently losing most of his support and being forced to flee, Benedict remained insistent until his final breath that he was the justified leader of the faith. Effectively exiled and forced out of the papal residences, he took up home here in Peñiscola castle where he was to die several years later. To this day he is not recognised as a true Pope but is instead known rather disparagingly as “Antipope Benedict XIII”.

Back to the current day Peñiscola. Truly, the beaches are hilariously busy, so many people vying to occupy the same spaces that it sometimes feels as if half the world’s population is either under a brightly coloured parasol or wading in the warm waters. The whole spectacle is made even funnier by the fact that the waters are shallow for a considerable distance from the shore, meaning that literally hundreds of people stand chatting with only the top half of their body visible above the surface. From the clifftop they look like so many flies on a windshield.

There’s a pattern though. Peñiscola beach is seriously rammed by 10.30 each morning, after which it’s impossible to be more than a few feet from your semi-undressed neighbours if you want to be within reach of the sea. Somewhere around 1.30pm it starts to thin out as the majority begin to gather up their stuff and head first for lunch and then, presumably, for a siesta. Hordes of them then return around four hours later and stay on the beach till sundown. Consequently the best time of day for a little bit of space is the mid-afternoon hours, just when the sun is at its hottest. Mad dogs and Englishmen, huh. And it is hot, by the way.

That siesta exodus tells us that we were probably right in our first assessment that most people here are Spaniards on holiday – we haven’t heard a single English voice in three days here, and, when a waiter realises we’re non-dom, he will most likely try to converse in French next. 

It’s been an interesting little stay in Peñiscola, its lovely Greek-chora style neighbourhood around the castle has been a pleasant surprise, and the castle itself a fun and interesting visit. The very crowded beach was neither a surprise nor particularly pleasant, but it’s been great to take a couple of days out and give ourselves a bit of chill time. And you can’t really dislike swimming in the Med, whatever. 

After our last meal here we compliment the waiter on the excellent tuna steaks, when he realises we’re from England he says he’s been there just once, to London.

“Did you like London?” asks Michaela

“It rained”, is his only response.

From Peñiscola we make our longest single move south for several weeks as we pick up the inter city train from Benicarlo for a near 4-hour journey down the coast to Alicante. On the stretches where the track ventures inland, the terrain is rugged and arid, at times almost desert like, barren acres of dust and rock where mountains rise to misshapen, wind eroded peaks. The pine clad hills of further north are gone: these peaks are more the stuff of spaghetti Westerns.

We weren’t aiming for Alicante, but with the train due to arrive just before 6pm we opt for a one night stand here rather than a late arrival at next base – not least because we remember our fellow bloggers the Pazeras at latitude adjustment writing a veritable eulogy about the place. In our very short visit here, we see the attraction.

With just one evening and one morning in Alicante, we can’t possibly do it justice, but in our short time here we see enough to encourage us to vow to return. The old town simply oozes character, so many great looking bars and restaurants that it’s hard to choose, an attractive waterfront and, way up above us, a hilltop castle which we simply don’t have time to climb to. As a one night stand, Alicante is a city which just begs you to come back for more.

But there isn’t time. We have an appointment with Happy Town….

Glimpses Of Life In Happy Town

Antonio is not having a good day, despite his smile.

“Today is not a good day. Already I have a broken ankle, and now the printer doesn’t work”, he explains, as I try to work out what the connection between the two events might be. 

Despite these things, Antonio quickly warms to the task of telling us about his town, becoming even more animated when we ask about restaurants. He grabs his pen and starts to draw circles and arrows on our town map.

“These restaurants in this road are very touristy”, he says, rather dismissively, “except this one” – he jots down the name – “and this one at the other end. And here”, he continues, with another circle, “is the best paella in town.”

He carries on with his passionate, incredibly helpful advice, from restaurants to supermarkets to beaches, including nudist beaches, and eventually the best coastal walk.

“This walk is so beautiful”, he says, “though maybe too hot just now. All along the edge of the cliff, above the clear sea, it is beautiful, then at the end, you can see the skyline of Benidorm. And believe me, the best way to see Benidorm is from a long way away”.

We laugh, Antonio joins in, and Michaela tells him she holidayed in Benidorm as a child. He goes just a little pensive.

“You know, fifty years ago, Benidorm was a paradise, now it is a concrete jungle full of people who do bad things. I don’t like it. You won’t like it either”

Well don’t worry, Antonio, your lovely little town is as close to Benidorm as we’re going to get.

Antonio’s town has two distinct names, or at least, two different versions of its name, which creates its own kind of havoc in our systematic travel records. It’s known as both Villajoyosa and La Vila Joiosa, both of which are used liberally around town, including by the local council. Now how am I going to know where to put that in our alphabetical lists?! Not since the Hania-Chania-Xania nonsense in Crete has my mojo been messed with this much. However, both names translate into English as “Joyous Town”, or, if you prefer, “Happy Town”. Apparently its people have a reputation for being among the happiest in Spain, which only makes us wonder which came first, the name or the demeanour.

On-line references to Villajoyosa refer to it as a former fishing village, but it’s quickly clear that there’s no real need to say “former” because the fishing fleet is still visibly active – although we guess it’s some time since it was truly a village. Stacked up on a hillside rising up from the beach, those houses which were once fishermen’s cottages are brightly coloured in different hues – originally, it seems, to guide the fishermen home, in the same style as Burano or villages on the coast of Ireland.

Soft sand beaches, rolling blue seas, palm trees, picturesque houses, and a small town with all amenities – this seems to us to be just about the perfect Mediterranean setting, yet unlike Peñiscola it’s definitely not overcrowded here, even in this last week of August. Additionally, Villajoyosa has a reputation for gastronomy, not just a host of quality restaurants but it’s also, we’re told, the home of the best chocolate in Spain. The happy people of Happy Town clearly have many reasons to be cheerful.

And they do indeed seem to be very cheerful. Waiters ask our names – and remember them – and welcome us back with big smiles when we’ve only called in for one beer previously. Even the girls on the supermarket tills are full of friendly smiles and chatter. During one meal, a rather well spoken English couple ask us what it’s like living in Villajoyosa; it seems that we are so deep in conversation with fellow diners (Spanish and Slovakian) and the waiter Mauricio (we remembered his name too) that the English couple have assumed that we are residents.

Whether or not you’re a fan of beaches, the main one here is pretty perfect. Wading out into the warm sea means, of course, removing my glasses, and consequently many things then become a bit of a blur. Today, suddenly, a distant figure manifests, seemingly walking on water. Is this a modern day miracle, I wonder? No, it’s just someone on a paddle board. And then I get to thinking, what if that was the explanation? What if Jesus had a paddle board?

There’s something endearingly indulgent about the happy people of Happy Town. If they’re not dancing to traditional music performed by a band on a temporary stage, they’re enjoying impromptu parties by the seafront or setting off fireworks which echo off the old houses like machine gun fire. There always seems to be laughter in the air.

Come Sunday afternoon, it’s time for a big water fight – whether this happens every week or today is a special occasion we have no idea, but a water tanker lorry with hoses attached parks in a cordoned off area at the seafront and huge numbers of people fill buckets, bottles and anything else they can find and hurl soakings over each other until the tanker lorry finally runs dry. Any unsuspecting visitor who strays into the designated area immediately becomes fair game – we watch one guy, fully clothed and carrying a small but obviously full backpack, do precisely this and get drenched. He is visibly angry, which just encourages the locals to give him and his baggage a second dousing. More fool him for hurdling the cordon. He complains to the attendant police, who simply laugh at his misadventure. As does everyone else.

Laughter, as we say, seems to be an ever present amongst the folk of Happy Town. Restaurants are busy, convivial places, and we often find ourselves joining in mixed language conversations with those at adjoining tables. It’s that kind of place.

Of course, we try out Antonio’s recommended paella restaurant, a visit which just goes to prove that all such things are subjective: the food is incredibly salty, far too much so to be the best paella we’ve had on this trip, an accolade which currently sits with a joint back in the square in Tarragona. Nevertheless, Happy Town’s reputation is well founded: we enjoy some excellent food here at very reasonable prices. You don’t need a big budget to be happy in Happy Town.

After several very hot days, Sunday brings an uncharacteristically cooling wind and the occasional splash of rain. A couple of mini twisters whip across the beach sending parasols, inflatables and even chairs spinning out across the waves or backwards up the beach. We learn later that the lightning storm which we can see towards the horizon has hit Mallorca with some venom.

It soon clears from Happy Town and by late afternoon the horizon has returned to its usual perfectly defined self; a while later the moonshine creates a beautiful V-shaped silver pathway across the black waters.

We’ve loved it here in Happy Town and could very easily earmark this place as somewhere to return to any time we feel like a quick Mediterranean fix. It ticks an awful lot of our boxes, including the one which says “use your whole 90-day EU permit and spend some serious time here”. It’s so easy to get to, too: the Alicante tram system runs all the way along the coast to Benidorm, stopping twice in Happy Town as it passes through. A couple of times I catch Michaela looking through the windows of real estate offices eyeing up larger apartments for future reference. I think she likes it here.

In fact it’s not without a touch of sadness that we hand the keys back to Antonio.

“You like my Happy Town?”, he asks.

We love it, Antonio. We definitely hope to return. Adios.

“And did you love the chocolate?”

Oh dammit, I knew there was something we’d forgotten….

On To Mojácar: Pink Lakes, Red Prawns & Silver Moonlight

More often than not, when you visit something with a name like “the blue forest” or “the purple mountains”, they’re not really blue or purple, are they. OK so there may be a hint of the colour which gives the place its moniker, but you would never call it vivid. Until, that is, you visit the Lugano Rosa, the “pink lake”, just outside the town of Torrevieja, which is properly, undeniably pink.

It’s rental car time again as we look to fully explore the next section of Spanish coastline and head down into Andalucia, driving south from Alicante and taking a detour specifically to see whether this lake really is the ridiculous shade of pink that the internet would have us believe. And it definitely is. The vast salt lakes around Torrevieja are a significant contributor to the local economy – large salt heaps visible from the highway are testament to that. The crazy pink hue is caused by a mix of bacteria and algae which thrive in salty waters, and is really quite a striking sight, particularly when matched with the deep blue sky on days like today.

A couple of hours on the evocatively named Autovia del Mediterraneo (Mediterranean Highway) carries us past miles of fruit tree plantations and into more rugged and arid terrain which really is spaghetti Western country – among many others, a large part of A Fistful Of Dollars was filmed around here. 

Around mid afternoon we leave the Highway and drive the steep hill up to our next destination, Mojácar, a small town balanced right on the top of the highest point in the area. Mojácar is described as being in two halves, but in fact the two different parts are completely separate places, a few kilometres and a bus ride apart. Our base is the compact and quaint pueblo way up on the mountain; the other half, Playa de Mojácar, is a long run of unattractive buildings down at sea level along the waterfront.

In fact it would be hard to imagine two more disparate halves to a town: the pueblo with its Moorish influences, tight streets and ancient gateways with trailing bougainvillea, and the beach town which we can most appropriately describe as Precinct-del-Mar. One is delightful, the other uninspired and uninspiring. The two places should be independently named.

From the top of the ridge at Mojácar The Pueblo, the views across both land and sea are truly stunning; it’s possible to wander out of the alley ways and out on to any edge, taking in panoramas which add up to a wonderful 360-view of the surrounding country. Our apartment is perched right on the edge of one such ridge, granting us some properly expansive views from our outdoor terrace. There are few things in life as relaxing as views like this. We could happily sit here for hours, just gazing.

Our first evening in town coincides with the last night of the….yes, you’ve guessed it…..fiesta. We’re starting to wonder if Spain declares a fiesta every time the sun rises at the correct hour. Oooh look, the sun’s up, let’s have a party tonight. As ever, the whole town population is crammed into the main square, youngsters having just competed in a bicycle race while girls aged between about 4 and 12 wander around in traditional Spanish flamenco style dresses, even down to roses in their hair. They look so cute – and so elegant! Later, a driving rock band takes us well past midnight: the classic rock style (but Spanish) tracks they play are all new to our ears but the locals join in with virtually every chorus. The whole gig is so good that we stay until the very last encore hits its final chord. 

Mojácar the pueblo is a gorgeous little town with interesting shops and inviting restaurants tucked away so well that we feel compelled to walk every inch of every street so as not to miss anything. It’s a town full of little surprises. The only downside is that Mojácar probably has more steep streets than anywhere we’ve ever been, and when wandering its alleys we are either on climbs which make the calf muscles scream or descents which assault the knees. Everything is at a 45 degree angle and nowhere is flat – but those stunning views make every single sinew-stretching step worthwhile.

Along the coast from Precinct-del-Mar aka Mojácar Playa is an infinitely more interesting coastal town, Garrucha, where marina meets port meets beach meets interesting back streets. The presence of the rugged port piled high with aggregates from the quarries waiting to be loaded on to the hulking ships alongside the quay just adds to the character. 

Garrucha has a culinary claim to fame, and we’re suckers for a local speciality – remember Kep crab and Kampot peppers in Cambodia, cassoulet in Carcassonne, sea urchin in Bari amongst many, many others – so we set about seeking out Garrucha’s “gambas rojos” (red prawns). Unfortunately we don’t have a photograph, probably because the sight of the dish left us reeling – more to do with value for money than anything visually memorable. Unbelievably, our 26 euros buys us….wait for it…FIVE prawns. And they’re not that big, either. Admittedly they were strong tasting, but more than five euros per prawn….oh come on.

As we prepare to move on further south, it’s time to start thinking about where we go from here. Originally we had planned to head up to Porto from southern Spain, but a combination of having taken longer to do Spain “properly” and the fact that we are limited to 90 days in the EU means that we don’t have time to do Portugal justice, so we’re going to move straight on to Morocco. But from Morocco…where? We don’t know yet. Food for thought.

Michaela is asleep now. Somehow in the Mediterranean heat she’s been fighting an energy-sapping head cold to which tonight she has finally had to give in and let sleep do its healing. I’ve just checked on her, she looks so serene that it’s easy to believe that recovery sleep is underway. I’m out here, headphones on and music playing, beneath an almost full moon turning the edges of the clouds silver. Beyond the lights of the coastal towns the Mediterranean has become an intangible expanse of darkness, stretching out to a horizon still just visible at midnight thanks to the glorious moonlight.

These views are magnificent, and so relaxing. Sunrise, blazing sun of the day or the silver hues of moonlight, the views from up here on the ridge below Mojácar are very special. Moments which will linger long in our memory.

My fingers are crossed that Michaela will be her normal bright eyed self again in the morning. I relax on the terrace, listening to music and looking out into the darkness and the moonlight. It’s beautiful. I check on Michaela again: she’s sleeping peacefully. She looks as lovely as those moonlight views.

All in all I think I’m a pretty lucky man.

From Mojácar To Nerja Via The Wild West

With about three hours of the Mediterranean Highway ahead of us we take a detour away from the straight road, out through the sleepy towns of Sorbas and Tabernas and on into the rocky barren country inland. This is the closest thing in western Europe to a genuine desert, but this is spectacular and rugged mountain desert rather than the flat sands of the Sahara, for instance. It’s big country.

As we mentioned in our last post, this is where the movie “A Fistful Of Dollars” was mostly filmed, together with a whole host of other so-called spaghetti Westerns, which just leads you to wonder why we don’t know them as paella Westerns. However, we are about to discover that the links between the Almeria province and the movie industry are much stronger than we could have known.

The small town of Tabernas has a kind of Mexican look about it – as we wander past the lines of low rise houses nestled beneath the rocky outcrops and past the occasional stout prairie cactus, we are reminded of those terrific towns of Mexico visited on our tour last year. Overlooking the town is a Moorish castle – the “castillo arabesque” according to the signs, high on a hilltop and calling us up to take a closer look. The town is for the most part quiet, then now and again there is the sound of community: little pockets of activity in small enclaves.

Beneath the shade of the trees in the church square, groups of old guys are absorbed in games of dominoes, brows furrowed in concentration and competitive spirit: this is clearly serious stuff. They don’t look up as we pass by. Occasionally one player will grunt, otherwise the only sound is the clackety-clack tapping of dominoes on tables. The owner of the “Circulo de Amigos” cafe hovers in the shadows, knowing these intense players will demand immediate service when the next caffeine fix is needed. Two more solitary guys sit and read their newspapers in the shadows, each of them alone and in silence. There’s not one female in the square.

Small queues of people trail from the doors of the baker and the pharmacy: the sound of chatter leads us around a blind corner to a thronging cafe where a group of ladies, most likely the wives of the domino fraternity, are part way through their daily intake of cafe con leche, pastries and girl talk. There’s not one male in the cafe. It’s hard to shake the feeling that every single day in Tabernas starts in exactly the same way: the two plazas filling their respective roles.

An old guy, deeply suntanned and seriously weather beaten, shuffles past alongside his faithful labrador, newspaper tucked under one arm and a loaf of bread in the other, looking like a man with a lifetime of hard graft behind him. He’s wearing a Motorhead T-shirt.

His T-shirt, bizarre as it looks, is still not as incongruous as the town’s “other” characteristic. Here amongst the time honoured Spanish village traditions and customs, in this hot and sleepy desert town, is a large slice of film industry history. Instead of statues along the pavement, there’s a series of fixed, metallic replicas of movie directors’ chairs, the names of famous directors cut into the back. Notice boards dotted around town detail movies made here from the 1950s to the present day. Photographs tell stories of visitors: Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, Harrison Ford, Sean Connery, Brigitte Bardot……

Tabernas is movie and TV history gold, yet it’s somehow hard to pair the sleepy traditional town with its pizzazz-rich claim to fame. It basks in its silver screen glory and star-struck memorabilia while its streets are empty and its old folk play dominoes and queue at the bakers. It’s the very definition of offbeat.

From a vantage point next to the “castillo arabesque”, we can clearly see mounted lettering down in the valley below – plainly in the style of THAT lettering in LA, it reads….TEXAS HOLLYWOOD. Driving across the valley to the sign, the whole movie thing goes to an entirely different level. 

We find ourselves wandering into Fort Bravo, and suddenly we’ve left Spain and entered a Wild West world of cowboys and Indians. This is the actual “town” built for the filming of those spaghetti Westerns and subsequently used in countless movies, TV shows and music videos. If you really want to know the strength of the connection, go to Wikipedia and search “movies made in Almeria”. It’s a gigantic list.

When not in use as a film set, which is still by the way a regular occurrence, Fort Bravo is open for those on a road trip, like us, to call in and explore. You can, if you wish, stay here overnight. Fall asleep under the stars, roll up a cheroot, and keep one ear and one eye open just in case…

Amusingly, the good folk of Tabernas pocket some cash from the movie moguls. Whenever Hollywood moves in, there is a need for “extras”, and in pour the townsfolk to earn 100 euros a day for being a face in the crowd. One or two have even given up the day job, earning enough from occasional minor roles in major movies to pay the bills. Strange world, isn’t it.

It’s hilarious to wander around Fort Bravo, through the dust, past the general store and the stables and through the swinging doors into the saloon bar, all the time half expecting a gun totin’ horse ridin’ outlaw to thunder in and shoot up the town. So familiar is the Wild West layout that not only do we feel like we’ve seen it on the screen a dozen times, but we also get the uncanny feeling that we’ve been here before – especially having been to California and Arizona last year. 

Deep inside myself, what I really want to do is burst through those saloon bar doors and shout, “bartender, get me a beer!”, or maybe even, “I’ve come for my boy…” but I fear that the humour may be lost on the young Spanish girl in her saloon girl outfit behind the bar. Predictably and maybe boringly we ride the stagecoach instead.

Spanish, American and Mexican flags flutter in the wind, dust and sand blow through town. We hope our rental car still has four wheels…them Cherokees are after me…

Leaving the slightly surreal world of Fort Bravo behind, it’s back on to the Mediterranean Highway towards our next destination, the coastal town of Nerja. For a long stretch where the Highway passes the city of Almeria, the space in between the gorgeous blue Med and the lofty, rugged mountains is filled with multiple square miles of land made excessively ugly by plastic greenhouses. Along this stretch there is something like 26,000 hectares of land hidden beneath plastic coverings, in which tomatoes and other salad foods grow. We know it all tastes fantastic but boy is the cultivation area an eyesore.

And so after another couple of Highway hours we pull in to Nerja and settle into our next “home”, another apartment with sea views which are so unrealistically good that we catch ourselves just staring at the Med. Again. It’s just so blue. We need less than thirty minutes wandering through town to know for sure that this is heavy “Brit country”, there are an awful lot of British and Irish holidaymakers and expats here in Nerja, reflected in recognisable shifts from previous towns: now there are Indian restaurants, English shopkeepers, stacks of Cadburys chocolate in the supermarkets. You can get bacon, egg and beans for breakfast, you can watch Sky Sports in a bar, waiters expect us to speak English.

But don’t get us wrong: Nerja is no Benidorm, nor is it Torremolinos or Los Cristianos: no, it’s very clear very soon that Nerja is a calm, gentle place with a welcoming, relaxed vibe. Sure it’s a tourist town, sure it’s in season, and yes it’s geared to the holiday market …but there’s something welcoming about it….

We shall see what it brings…

Nerja, Frigiliana & The Caminita del Rey

On January 12th 1959, five male students failed to report for lessons at a local school in Nerja, not in itself an earth shattering event – indeed the tutor, one Carlos Saura Garre, assumed they had either met some girls or had decided that a movie would be more entertaining than a lecture. Neither of these was the case: the boys had in fact plucked up courage to go through a small entrance to a sinkhole and head underground to see what they might discover.

What they did discover must have blown their young minds. Beneath the waste land just behind the village of Maro, they walked into a gigantic and incredible cave network which was to have a major impact on our understanding of the evolution of the human race and provide one of the most amazing archeological study subjects of its kind. On the walls of this astonishing network are what are currently thought may be be the earliest ever drawings made by mankind so far discovered – they have been aged at some 42,000 years. As we walk awestruck through the caves today, we can only imagine the reaction of those young lads as this incredible place opened up before them.

On our travels, we have visited and wandered through some spectacular caves, but the Caves Of Nerja are up there with the most breathtaking. The display of stalactites, stalagmites and other rock formations just has to be seen to be believed, as does the sheer scale of the cathedral hallways which open up at each turn – just when we think it can’t get any more spectacular, it does exactly that. In total the cave network stretches almost 5 kilometres, only the first portion of which is open to the public, a fact which is ever so slightly mind blowing when you see the scale of the part which is open.

Having almost run out of superlatives to describe the caves, surely after all the lovely towns and villages we’ve seen, there won’t be anything here to have us reaching for more eulogistic words in that respect. Wrong. A few kilometres inland from Nerja is Frigiliana, which just maybe the most perfect of the many “pueblos bonitos” of all that we’ve seen.

With its white houses strung around the curved side of the gorge, streets rising in an amphitheatre shape looking down the gorge towards the sea, Frigiliana is just about the perfect Spanish village. Every corner we turn brings another beautiful lane, or a gorgeous panoramic view, or both. Having really thought that nowhere would outdo Languada or Mojácar, Frigiliana possibly takes the crown. Three gorgeous little places.

The most prominent building of Frigiliana is not, as is usually the case, the church or a monastery, but is what we first think is an olive oil mill. What it actually turns out to be is Europe’s only plant which produces sugar cane honey, which as claims to fame go is pretty esoteric. It’s called honey, but it’s really a semi-caramelised sugar cane extract not requiring the intervention of bees. A local delicacy is aubergine prepared like the Greek dish “kolokythakia” and then doused in this very sweet extract…nice but a little overly sweet for us, especially in a savoury dish context.

Frigiliana certainly is beautiful, even though we catch it on a day when dark clouds are gathering in the blue sky. By the following day, Sunday, Nerja has lost the sunshine altogether, and the temperature drops to a level which has the locals and expats scurrying for their winter wardrobe. Rain falls at regular intervals, but not in the volume which has brought flash flooding and “stay at home” messages elsewhere in the country: Nerja just gets a boring English-style dreary day with enough downpours to make us wary of committing to anything. This area gets 320 sunshine days per year; obviously today is one of the other 45.

By Monday things are back to their blue-sky hot-sun normal, the horizon and the headlands are once again crystal clear and the sun worshippers are soon baring flesh on the beaches. It’s becoming clear though that the intense heat of summer is morphing into something more gentle. Perfect for what we have planned for the day.

The Caminito del Rey is a fantastic and, in our experience, unique hike. Including the start and end bits to and from the shuttle bus, this is a linear walk of around five miles, most of which is on a walkway bracketed to the side of a deep and spectacular gorge, way above the swirling waters below and high enough to be where only eagles would normally be. Literally, the camino makes its way along the sheer cliff, clinging to the rock face at dizzying heights. Not a walk for those with vertigo.

As well as exhilarating, the caminito has an interesting history. Around the turn of the 20th century, in a search to satisfy the growing demand for electricity, the waters of three rivers were diverted into the Desfilerado de los Gaitanes via a 100 foot drop into the tight gorge, at the end of which were built a dam and a hydro-electric power station. Once constructed, there was a need for foot access through the gorge to the plant, along which power station engineers, maintenance technicians and those delivering certain goods would walk.

In those days, there was no thought of handrails or safety equipment, this was just a flat, precarious platform fixed horizontally to the sheer cliffs. The path fell into disuse and consequent decay, but, much later and with the advent of the internet, the deteriorating pathway gained a reputation as a destination for thrill seekers – and anything carrying the tag “most dangerous walk in the world” was bound to attract a certain type. After four fatal accidents where such intrepid, or foolhardy, people had perished, the path was permanently closed.

Somebody somewhere then realised that the Caminito del Rey had tourist potential. The caminito as it is today was then born, and reopened in 2015. It’s an exciting, brilliant hike giving angles of vision on a deep canyon which would otherwise be impossible to attain. We enjoy it so much that by the time we clamber on to the shuttle bus at the end, all we can think of is that we wish we could do it twice. 

And so we reach the end of our time in Nerja. Our first impressions were correct, this may be a town geared to tourism but it is a welcoming, attractive town with much to offer and enjoy. The Balcon d’Europe, a walkway from town to sea, provides great views of the Med and of both sunrises and sunsets. Nerja is undoubtedly popular with holidaymakers and expats alike, and it’s easy to see why – we have found it to be a town which effortlessly presses all the relaxation buttons.

Next up, we head away from the coast and inland to Granada.

Granada & The Alhambra

It’s on the Wednesday morning in Granada that it happens, proper confirmation that I am old. Here I am, fresh from walking the Caminito del Rey, sporting a T-shirt from my travels, boarding a shuttle bus from city centre to the Alhambra and feeling full of the joie de vivre which travelling the world brings, when some guy stands up to offer me his seat. This is the first time anywhere in the world that this has happened to me. I must look so old now that it’s obligatory for someone to offer me their seat. I am suddenly and undeniably an old git.

Inside I’m cursing him and wanting to shout HOW VERY DARE YOU!! but of course I give him a “gracias” and a smile. And sit in his seat.

Before Granada has chance to deliver its apocalyptic confirmation of irreversible downward spiral (Michaela: oh Phil stop being such a drama queen for God’s sake), we take a wonderful detour on the way from Nerja, up into the splendid mountains of the Sierra Nevada. As we negotiate the never ending switchbacks and hairpins, huge views reveal themselves across this splendid, large scale scenery. Everything is so….vast.

Calling in for a cooling drink in one of the more appealing towns, we wander along the main street of Lanjarón, a small mountain town in the Las Alpujarras section of the Sierra Nevada famed for its spa waters and delicious hams. We only order a soft drink yet we’re given a decent size plateful of sliced hams with fresh bread as a free accompaniment.

Like most visitors, the main reason we have come to Granada is to visit the Alhambra, which is indeed a magnificent sight worthy of the oft quoted tag “the eighth wonder of the ancient World”. By pre-booking tickets we have committed most of our first full day to an Alhambra visit, having read that it’s advisable to allow around 4 hours to explore the place fully. 

We arrive in Granada late on Tuesday afternoon, granting us an opportunity for exploratory walks around the old part of the city ahead of tomorrow’s excursion. Even in these first few hours, the Arabic/Moorish/Muslim influence is easy to spot – this is a different kind of Spain with heavy influences from a different continent altogether. It’s as if our southbound journey through Spain to North Africa is already in transition. The true depths of these influences are to reveal themselves more fully over the next couple of days.

Alhambra does indeed take a good 4 hours if not a little longer, it is a vast place. Originally constructed during the 13th century under the auspices of the first Nasrid emir as both palace and fortress, the Alhambra has endured, and enjoyed, a colourful history. Within the fortified walls on top of Sabika hill overlooking what was the separate city below (now of course Granada) the complex grew into a sizeable citadel housing up to twenty mosques and six separate palaces. It is one of the best preserved palace complexes from the historic Islamic world.

And there’s no doubt that it is indeed beautifully preserved, partly due to the many different renovations and restructures down the centuries. Of all of the stories from Alhambra’s great history, one such tale is commemorated with an extremely attractive statue in the Realejo district of Granada: the story of Christopher Columbus and Spanish royalty.

Immediately after the surrender of Alhambra by the Nasrid Muslims, the Catholic royals King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella I took up residence in the palace. Columbus, denied funds for exploration by his native Italy, is said to have travelled to Alhambra specifically to beg Isabella for the necessary funding – a request which was, of course, granted. We guess that gives the Alhambra a place in American history too.

The buildings of the Alhambra are majestic as well as beautifully preserved, but there is further joy in wandering around the sumptuous gardens of Generalife adjacent to the citadel and palaces: truly glorious, peaceful gardens.

Visiting the palaces of Alhambra and wandering through what was the ancient Islamic city of Alcazaba is the object and purpose of most people’s visit to Granada – maybe not simply to walk through the magical place itself, but also to take in the stirring skyline views of the palaces from a number of excellent viewpoints around the city. Granada is built on a series of steep hills, creating iconic views from several spots – and, as Sabika hill is one of the most prominent, some of those panoramas are simply fantastic.

Despite its proximity to the coast, Granada sits at 2,421 feet above sea level, meaning that even at this time of year, the morning air is refreshingly cool. Exploring the Alhambra has been great, but it is after our visit to the palaces and when we begin to explore the city itself that the real intrigue of Granada begins to exert its grip on our inquisitive minds.

Granada holds wonderful secrets and has fabulous stories to tell…more to follow in our next post.

Unravelling Granada’s Complex Cultures

I don’t think we realised before we came here just what a melting pot of cultures exists in this fascinating, absorbing city, but we very quickly find ourselves being completely enthralled by the heady mix of history and evolution which has created the Granada of today. It really starts when we walk out of the cathedral, through a plaza or two and turn left into something which is the most stark of contrasts.

For starters, the huge cathedral, Spain’s second largest after Seville, is a bastion of Catholicism absolutely filled with religious icons, glorious paintings and reliefs depicting many stories from the life of Jesus. Yet take just a few steps away from its giant doors and the influence of Islam shines through in the architecture of the city, where the unmistakably shaped windows and apertures so reminiscent of North Africa are everywhere.

The left turn from Plaza Bib-Rambla takes us into what for all intents and purposes is a medina. Later, wandering through the tiny streets of the Albaycin district, the illusion is even more powerful: here the streets smell of incense, spices and hookahs, restaurants serve shawarma and kebab rather than tapas, shops sell carpets, lanterns, rugs. Muslim dress is common, alcohol not so. It’s impossible to shake the feeling that we’ve stepped from Europe into Africa less than a mile from our apartment.

Yet Spain is still here too. In other districts tapas bars fill pavements, tostada breakfasts dominate the mornings, palms and orange trees provide shade in the squares and busy street cleaners brush, hose and sweep walkways and thoroughfares. But this mix of Spanish and Arabic is just the first layer as the culture mix of Granada unfolds.

Above and beyond the ancient quarter of Albaycin is Sacromonte, a scarcely believable community of cave houses built into the rock faces. It’s an amazing place to see but its stories and its histories are absolutely fascinating. Granada was once a major city in the Moorish state of Al-Andalus after the Umayyad conquest of the 8th century, although a sizeable Roman settlement is known to have existed here before this time. Muslims held Granada and its environs until 1492 when this, their last piece of European territory, was surrendered to the Catholic monarchs, a move which was to signal the expulsion or forced conversion of non-Christians to the Catholic faith.

Although many moriscos, as descendants of the Moors were, and still are, called, fled, many were unable to afford emigration and opted to stay despite the enforced religious conversion, continuing to practice their own faith in secrecy and away from prying eyes. Marginalised by the rapidly growing Christian influence, the moriscos drifted to the hills above Albaycin, mostly to the hill now known as Sacromonte.

The cave houses are thought by some historians to have first been created by black slaves left behind by those Moors and Arabs who were able to emigrate after the surrender of Granada in 1492. These first cave dwellers were joined by a large influx of Romany gypsies, the so called gitanos, originating from the Punjab, next by the marginalised moriscos and then, to a less significant extent, Jews forced out of the city by the sweeping Christian wave.

These three main factions, the moriscos, the gitanos and the former slaves, had common themes in their plight: ostracised and mistrusted by the city, persecuted for their beliefs and lifestyles, pushed to the fringes of society and forced to dig out, and occupy, cave houses in the mountainside. This amalgam of people forged an inclusive, vibrant sub-culture which astonishingly survives to this day.

We try to absorb this in a couple of ways – firstly by wandering through Sacromonte where a large number of cave houses still exist as homes, and on to the rather wonderful cave house museum where several have been restored to just how they once were. And then secondly by calling in to a “flamenco cave” one evening. Flamenco caves are exactly that – former cave houses where nightly displays of flamenco dancing are performed.

But this flamenco is so very different from the flamboyant flamenco which we associate with Spain. The flamenco of flowing dresses and castanets is alive with sensuality, passion and love: by comparison, the flamenco of Granada is morose, moody and angry. Feet are stomped in temper and frustration rather than in lust and desire: these are protest songs of oppression and marginalisation, of distrust and racial stereotyping. Most dances feature just a single performer: there’s very little interplay here. Of course it’s still passionate, but with a wholly different set of emotions, a wholly different message.

The cave house population swelled still further after the Spanish Civil War when farming communities were driven off their land by poverty during the Franco era. At its height, Sacromonte had more than 2,000 cave houses, and it’s remarkable just how many survive today, still in use as private homes, as cafes or as those flamenco caves. It was in fact Mother Nature herself who finally dispersed much of the community when the severe floods of 1963 devastated many of the homes. Sacromonte may be a simple hill but it holds an incredibly powerful set of stories.

Granada possesses every lovable aspect of a great Spanish city: grand buildings, tree lined streets, tapas, wine, plazas, palm trees and sunshine – and is a contemporary, outdoor lifestyle city where residents prosper and friends socialise until the early hours. It also has the Alhambra, an “eighth wonder of the World” and a UNESCO World Heritage site which looks down on the city from high above, majestic and awe inspiring. It’s a city where you turn a corner and feel like you’ve changed continents. And then, rumbling beneath it all, this thriving, proud, unique sub-culture representing the persecuted minorities across the centuries.

But let’s not let this distract from the lively, thriving city which Granada clearly is. It would be possible to miss the deeply cultural history altogether and still fall in love with Granada, where no district is without appeal and the very essence of Spain is woven into its fabric. 

It’s a fabulous, engaging city with layer upon layer of character. We have found it to be rather special.

UPDATE re Morocco, 12th September: We are now in our last few days in Spain, heading to Morocco on Friday. We have of course been following the terrible news following the tragic earthquake last week, but as our itinerary doesn’t take us close to the devastated area, we are pressing ahead with our plans to go. We feel in a way that our very modest contribution to the Moroccan economy is the least we can do.

Day Trip To Gibraltar & Other Stories 

Sausage, bacon and egg in a bun, a little dash of brown sauce, a sweetened cappuccino: hangover cure par excellence. It’s needed, last night was a long night and today is going to be a long day. But we can’t be this close to Gibraltar without making a visit – the first visit to an overseas British territory for either of us.

Our base now is the coastal town of San Luis de Sabinillas on the Costa del Sol, for our last taste of the Spanish Mediterranean on this long journey south. We’ve chosen this location not just for one last dip in the blue but for two other reasons as well: firstly to make that trip to Gibraltar, and secondly to meet up with Jo. Jo is an old friend and colleague of Michaela’s who moved out to Spain some fourteen years ago, and it’s a long time since they’ve seen each other.

Emotional reunions soon give way to rounds of drinks and a long night is underway, in fact Jo and her partner Darren keep us up way, way beyond an old man’s bedtime. I can scarcely believe my eyes as I crawl into bed and realise it’s almost 3am – neither of us can even remember the last time a night out lasted until such a naughty hour! In truth we may not remember too much about this one either.

Once the ever reliable hangover cure has done its work we’re off down the coast to a little piece of Britain in the sun. On the advice of Jo and Darren we leave the car on the Spanish side of the border and go through passport control on foot – entering Gibraltar on foot means that the first thing you do on the British side is walk right across the centre of the main runway of Gibraltar airport, which in itself is a bit of an odd feeling, strolling across the runway while the Easyjet aircraft roars its engines and prepares to fly.

Approaching the famous rock and its surrounding metropolis is actually quite a sight – a genuinely unusual panorama around a rock which is both instantly recognisable and an awful lot bigger than we had imagined. It’s an imposing mass; little wonder ancient sailors believed that the end of the Earth lay just beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. 

Coming into the town centre via the main square and into the streets, we are expecting Gibraltar to look and feel like Britain did a couple of decades ago, but in reality it’s not really like that at all. Yes there’s some red double decker buses and some red phone boxes, but otherwise Gibraltar is a mix of British and Spanish, with both languages, both currencies and both cuisines in evidence. In other words, it’s not so different from the Costa del Sol towns the other side of the border.

With just a few hours here we opt for a minibus tour for part of our day – pricey but at least we’ll get to see everything we want to, including the obligatory visit to the top to see the famous macaque monkeys, Europe’s only wild monkey colony. Never mind these little fellas, the views from here are amazing, both out to sea and along the coast in both directions. The macaques are rather well behaved, carefully taking food from the hands of people rather than raiding and stealing like they normally do.

The rock of Gibraltar is one of the two “pillars of Hercules”, the other being Jebel Musa in Morocco, between them forming the gateway between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Beyond here to the west was where early explorers and sailors feared to venture, the end of the flat Earth was out there in the great blue expanse, waiting to claim the lives of those who ventured too far and fell off the end. To this day, the shipping area out in this vast beyond is called “Finisterre”, literally meaning “end of the Earth”.

St Michael’s Cave, on the way up to top of the Rock, was once prepared in readiness for war as a military hospital, though was never in fact used for that purpose. Nowadays, the terrific display of stalactites and stalagmites forms the backdrop to a sound and light show every 20 minutes or so – all very touristy but quite cool to witness nonetheless.

Coming down the tiny one way lane over the rock brings us to the entrance to the World War II tunnels, sections of which are open to the public and form a fascinating subterranean walk. As a front line at the edge of the continent and a base for the British Army, Gibraltar was a target for Hitler and a strategic part of the Allies’ defence. The interior of the rock is a positive honeycomb, with 34 miles of tunnels capable of housing 16,000 troops and holding out against invasion for 16 months.

Remarkably the aggregate length of the tunnels is almost double the total length of Gibraltar’s roadways. Although the first tunnels were excavated in the 18th century, most of them were completed over two years of WW2: several of these underground streets and interchanges are named after places back home, mostly in London. Maida Vale, Baker Street, Clapham Junction.

We opt to walk back down to town from the tunnels, via the castle. Even though we took the minibus option we end up walking more than 11 miles over the course of the day, not bad after a 3am bedtime. In town, preparations are underway for tomorrow, Gibraltar’s National Day, and it’s clear that it’s going to be one BIG party. We’ll stay out of it, we’ve partied enough for one weekend.

The fish’n’chip signs are out, vying for position with albondigas and Spanish omelette, or pizza, or curry. Gibraltar is a marriage of cultures rather than a distinctive culture of its own, though apparently true Gibraltarians speak in a dialect which is difficult for both Brits and Spaniards alike to understand, and is, amusingly, the origin of our word “gibberish”.

With Gibraltar done, we make one last visit to a beautiful mountain village, Casares, which has possibly even more steep hills than the daft inclines we’ve seen elsewhere. It’s a beautiful little village though, with Moorish architecture as evident here as it was in Granada.

Casares is a quiet little place where we are amongst just a handful of visitors, unlike Mijas where we called in en route to the coast from Granada. Mijas was alive, not just with day trippers from the likes of Fuengirola, but with its own fiesta in full swing – turns out today is their patron Saint’s day. As we’ve seen many times on this trip, any excuse for a fiesta will do, so a special Saint’s Day is a given. 

White bunting adorns the streets which are full of ladies in traditional Spanish dress, temporary bars fill the squares and the beer and sangria is flowing. We seem to have seen similar scenes several times over the last few weeks.

And so to our last day in San Luis de Sabinillas. One last swim in the Mediterranean – a colder dip here with the Atlantic waters mixing in – and a farewell drink with Jo and Darren, and we move on to our last destination on this long journey through Spain. 

It’s Seville next.

A Few Days In Magical Seville 

It feels like a significant point on this journey as we head into Seville, drop the rental car off at the airport and get a ride into town. Apart from a night at the ferry port, Seville will be our last stay in Europe before we swap continents and head for Africa, this is the last of our Spanish cities as well as the point where we hand back the last of our rental cars until Morocco. All in all, it feels like a bit of a watershed moment.

Our long journey through Spain is nearly done, a journey which started in Catalunya, took us through Zaragoza and into the Rioja region, hundreds of miles down the Mediterranean coast and eventually to the very edge of the continent. A journey which had earlier started in Paris on 3rd July, has taken us through the different character of successive provinces of France, given us glimpses of Andorra and Gibraltar before we finally find ourselves wandering amongst Moorish and Arabic influences as the transition begins.

And then, just as our minds are moving on to Morocco, we wander out of our last Spanish apartment into the afternoon sunshine, between the majestic buildings and the palm and orange trees and we think, you know what, we might just have left the most beautiful city till last. Seville is a city which just keeps on giving, no matter how many streets you walk down, no matter how many corners you turn, no matter how many bridges you cross. Almost every street has something beautiful about it.

Admittedly, it’s busy though. Maybe it’s the influx of those not governed by school holidays and consequently in the habit of coming away in shoulder season, but the streets are full of walking tours, segway tours and cycling tours; the open top buses and the river boats are doing brisk business. Countless horse and carriage combos trundle around the same circuit. Everyone seems to be speaking English.

But we’ve always said that places become popular for a reason, whether it’s beautiful beaches, gorgeous scenery or, like here in Seville, a city of majesty. Crowds head to such places because there’s something worth seeing, that’s the crux of it. People don’t head in numbers to dull places. Seville is popular for exactly the reasons that Luton isn’t.

The cathedral, for instance, is the largest in Spain, one of the largest in the World, has 15 different points of entry, 80 separate chapels and the longest nave of any church in the country. There is nothing deceptive about all this, it looks huge from the outside and it looks cavernous within: it’s a stunningly beautiful Gothic building which is one of those places which keeps making you stop and stare, both looking at the wonderful facades from outside and marvelling at the splendour of its interior.

In fact, admiring this wonderful place, a thought occurs. Maybe Gaudi wasn’t so crazy when designing La Sagrada Familia, maybe he was just taking the concepts from the likes of Seville to a different level. Gaudi was undoubtedly innovative, but judging by this cathedral, somebody was at it a long time before he was, there are some inspired moments behind the design of this enormous place. Inside the cathedral lie the tombs of Christopher Columbus, his son Diego, as well as Spanish royalty including those with such splendid names as Alfonso The Wise. Ah, Alfonso The Wise. Wouldn’t we all love to be known by a name like that centuries after our death.

The views of Seville from the top of the belltower – the Giralda – are fabulous. At 343 feet tall, the top of this belltower is reached, unusually, by a winding, sloping walkway rather than stairs. It’s worth every ounce of effort to walk out on to the platform and see Seville spread out on all sides.

Right next to the huge cathedral is the Palace of Real Alcazar, a magnificent and rambling complex built for Castilian royalty on the site of a former Arab fortress. Such is the scale of the Alcazar and its grounds that it’s easy to lose your bearings as you move from spectacular room to graceful hall and out into the extensive gardens.

It’s impossible to run through all of Seville’s impressive sights in a respectably sized blog post, it would be possible to go on for ever – but special mention has to be made of Plaza de España, such a beautiful and interesting place that it’s actually hard to turn our backs and walk away. Built for the 1929 Ibero-American Expo trade fair, the plaza, and the surrounding courtyards and parks are all beautifully designed and everything about it is extremely pleasing on the eye. And on the ear, with music from buskers and flamenco groups echoing through the archways.

Seville has another “biggest in Spain” claim in addition to the cathedral. The Plaza de Toros de Maestranza is the largest bullring in the whole country, holding 13,000 spectators and home to both a major annual festival and a bullfighting museum full of fascinating photographs, paintings, posters and costumes from this time honoured tradition. However, the riveting history of the traditions and pageant of bullfighting, which I remember reading here some twenty odd years ago, all seems to have been removed, leaving us to wonder whether it’s gone because its content would be too upsetting for today’s snowflake generation to read. You know, that all too common preposterous stance that if history doesn’t please us, let’s either rewrite it or pretend it never happened. Whatever, the absorbing detail of bullfighting history is no longer there to read. Shame.

Something which definitely does please us is the food scene in Seville – like the city itself, we seem to have left the best till last, some of the flavour combinations in the tapas dishes here are sublime. Calle Mateos Gago, a small street leading away from the cathedral, is lined both sides with traditional looking atmospheric bars where outside tables lead through to wood panelled interiors in which walls are adorned with bullfighting memorabilia and mounted bulls’ heads. 

Pick any bar here – if you can find an empty table – and enjoy these wonderful little dishes, many of which are Sevillian specialties, some with influences from its Arab neighbours. “Tapas”, literally translated, means “lids” or “covers”, dating from a time when each little plate of food was balanced on the top of a drink prior to serving.

Our brief stay in Seville, or Sevilla if you prefer, has been a great way to finish this Spanish odyssey, a beautiful city which showcases much of what we take to be classic Spain, and does it with aplomb and panache. A wonderful last fill of all things Spanish before we head to the port town and leave España behind.

In a neat ending to our journey through Spain, ornate tiled alcoves at the Plaza de España pay tribute to each of the country’s provinces, giving us the opportunity to piece together our route in a collage of photographs. This, below, has been our rather wonderful journey through this ever changing country…step by step….