Gorge of fear

Visiting the Alhambra palaces with their divine architecture had always been destined to be the zenith of our holiday, the goal around which our whole trip to Andalusia had evolved.
But afterwards we had one day of our trip left.
What could compete with the wonders of manmade architecture at the Alhambra except the wonders of nature?
So Nigel suggested we take a bus out to the Sierra Nevada and climb a mountain.
'I still have a cough. I don't think I can do it.'

Kindly, he downwardly revised his suggestion. We would explore a river gorge in the foothills from a town called Monachil.

'It will be a gentle walk.'
We had only been walking for a short time when the original trail ran out. We could go back or continue on up the steep sided canyon.

We opted for the latter. However, it turned out that the 'path' was in fact the concreted over pipe which fed the irrigation system for local farming and in a number of places it had been cut through the rock with enough space for the pipe, rather than for people.

I literally ended up crawling on a ledge on hands and knees with the river beneath me and overhanging rock above me. Three times. And shimmying along on my belly twice. I tore my shorts and grazed my knees.

On the plus side, Nigel is always very helpful and encouraging when we find ourselves in one of these little scrapes and I say dramatic things like 'I can't go on!'

And the first thing I heard when we came through into the open at the end of the canyon was the call of choughs, a bird which is the symbol of Cornwall but now very rare in the UK. Ten of the glossy black creatures were spinning and swooping in acrobatic courtship flight, and visiting their nests in the red cliff above us.
A sight which did indeed compete with the Alhambra!

Basic Tourist

Our first two days in Granada were spent marching up and down hills through an indecipherable tangle of narrow streets whose cobbles were made from a peculiarly slippery rock. 

We were chasing down a number of old courtyard houses, medieval bathhouses and baroque churches. Each one had to be arrived at within the rubric of their opening hours. 

Especially as we now both had coughs, it sometimes felt like hard work.

On the third day, we had a timed ticket to the Alhambra Palace, perhaps the main goal of our whole trip to Andalusia.

The Alhambra Palace turned out to be the ultimate tourist experience - beautifully maintained paths, capacious aseos (loos) clear maps and signposts.

The only initiative required is to hold one's ground as the guided parties stampede through, stabbing at their phone cameras. Their philosophy seems to be that any wonder of nature or architecture looks much better with THEM in front of it.

As the crowd departs, minutes later in a whirl of dust, one may snatch a few tranquil moments in each perfectly proportioned courtyard, listening to the ripple of the fountains.

We pottered all day on the well-marked paths, and I revelled in the effortlessness of being just your basic tourist.

Cars in unfeasible places

 In Granada, the streets are cobbled and narrow, banked by high buildings.

Laid out in Mediaeval times, they are suited to donkeys.

But this challenge has clearly not put off the modern driver, and we frequently had to retreat into doorways to allow cars to pass. 

Almost no alley was too narrow for some car to attempt it.

Perhaps they are being driven by donkeys?

patioed out

In Andalusia, houses tend to arrange themselves around little courtyards, rather than next to a garden. These patios/courtyards were open to the sky, provided light wells and ventilation and insulated the inhabitants from the heat, noise and dust of the street. In the Arab tradition, it also allowed domesticity to remain private.

In one day we visited over twenty patios. In the morning we took part in an open patios scheme where a single ticket admitted us to the houses of eight people, and, accidentally, one man who wasn't part of the scheme but said we could take a look anyway. 

Each patio would contain a well and a large trough with washboard for doing the laundry. And every inch of wall was filled with pots of geraniums, clivia, herbs and ferns.

In the afternoon we promenaded the twelve patios of the Palacio Viana.  Geometric and ornate, these were parterres centred on fountains and framed by topiary.

Both kinds of patio filled us with admiration, each in their own way.

But then Tamara sent a pic of our own patio at home, heavy rain pinging off pots of herbs which had barely started to grow yet.

And even despite the contrast, it made me feel a little homesick.  Which is probably a good thing.

The Mezquita mosque, Cordoba

If I made a list of the wonders of the modern world this Mezquita mosque would be on it. The prelude to the amazing building itself was the courtyard of orange trees, bright with ripe fruit and fragrant with blossom, punctuated by fountains and cypress trees.

Inside, hundreds of columns and arches replicated the trees.

This manmade orange grove was so large, extended three times by various caliphs, that one lost one's sense of direction until, suddenly one broke through into a much taller chamber.

Later, Christian, monarchs had plonked a soaring, rumbustious Gothic cathedral down literally in the centre of this massive mosque, flying buttresses crashing down into the sacred space.

From within the mosque, however, the cathedral was a well kept secret until one actually entered it. Yet later, when we climbed the bell tower and looked out, its extra height made it the most obvious feature of the place.

Again and again we looked back at the magic trick of a cathedral within a mosque  - simultaneously both concealed and yet standing out. 

Probably it is a metaphor for something, but I have no idea what.

The curse of Mr Sniffles

Our train journey to Barcelona took six hours. We had delightful window seats in the upper storey of the train and enjoyed watching the views and getting some work done.

Except for one thing. In the seat just behind Nigel was a man relentlessly blowing his nose, coughing and sneezing.

For the whole of the journey.

 I remembered far too late that I brought masks in my bag for just such an eventuality.

We couldn't see him but nicknamed him Mr Sniffles. At one point we heard him get up, probably to visit the buffet car. We both peered to see what our Nemesis looked like. He was in early middle age and wearing cream jeans ripped to reveal what appeared to be black rubber leggings underneath. On his top half, a cream sweater with a motif knitted into it in silver lurex. It was a skull and crossbones.

Miraculously Nigel did not contract the cold, but a few days later when I felt my throat grow sore, I remembered the skull and crossbones, harbinger, if not of death, at least of a nasty cold.

PS just wanted to say that this could equally have happened on a plane and wasn't a consequence of train travel. Perhaps Mr Sniffles was also an eco warrior!

on safari at Doñana

We were visiting Doñana National Park for the extraordinary wildlife there. Most of the park could be accessed only by tour so at crack of dawn we joined a guide and maybe 20 others to tour the southern part of the park where land met sea.

The guide, who was also our driver, was clearly used to people who were only mildly interested in wildlife. He amused himself by pretending we were on an African safari.

'Today, we shall be viewing lions and giraffes.'

When another minibus came towards us, 'Here we have a green elephant.'

When we passed a group who had got out, 'And here is a group of primates.'

However, despite his idiosyncrasies, he did show us a number of wildlife wonders the most unforgettable of which were a great number of gryphon vultures circling in a tall column, an osprey hunting fish along the shore, and a huge Spanish Imperial eagle sat solemnly beside its nest.

And we certainly would not have seen the last of these on an African safari.

Flamingos or horses

At the town of El Rocio two rivers meet and there is a large lake which has not been dried out by the drought. 

I stood transfixed, my back to the town, with my binoculars fixed on flocks of flamingos (flamencos) and spoonbills, glossy Ibis and black winged stilt. (I could go on. And on.)

However, gradually I became aware of lots of gallopy and trotty  noises  behind me. My assumption had been that El Rocio would be famed for its flamingos and that's why anybody would visit.

But no, it was the town of horses. Horses are 'farmed' semi-wild here, in a manner similar to New Forest ponies. The streets of the town are composed of sand to suit the horses and many houses have wooden bars for tying your horse outside, like a saloon in a spaghetti western. 

People were taking excursions in horses and traps and riding horses down the street at much higher speed than would be acceptable in a Cotswold town.

My grandfather, who bred horses, would have been in seventh heaven.

The town had thoughtfully provided a wooden rail along the lakeside to divide dozy flamingo watchers like me from crazy equestrians, possibly following previous regrettable incidents.

So I was able to turn back to watching my pink feathered friends in peace.

The great cat of Spain

I had heard there would be amazing water birds at Doñana national park. As you've gathered, I'm a bit of a bird nurd, but even somebody who wasn't might thrill at the prospect of flocks of pink flamingos.

But with wildlife tourism one must always hold anticipation in check, as birds and animals don't appear to order and disappointment is frequent.

First we visited the el Acebuche reserve but there were no water birds at all as the marsh had dried up.  

However, we were excited to find that Acebuche was a captive breeding centre for the famous endangered Iberian lynxes.

These creatures are so well camouflaged with their spotted pelts that we were unable to see the one in the enclosure. Even with the help of a professional naturalist and a telescope trained on the creature, it took several minutes of us going '¿donde?' and her going '¡alli!'

Finally, a patch of dappled sunlight resolved itself into a sleepy great cat.

'There she is!'

So if it was that difficult to see the lynx  - the large iconic animal of the area, just how difficult was I going to find it track down flamingos tomorrow?

No holiday from climate change

Always conscious of climate change, Nigel and I came on this trip by train not plane - we no longer fly. Despite the challenges of Andalusian cuisine, we have been eating as vegetarian as possible. But we had planned to enjoy our holiday and for a few days to forget about our worries, including climate change.

Nigel's Spanish colleagues had recommended we visit Doñana National Park on the Atlantic Coast west of Cadiz. Here, acres of marshland play host to thousands of water birds migrating north from Africa. Many breed here on the edges of the fertile lakes. There would be flamingos!

However, when we reached the Achebue Visitor Centre, all was not well. The map showed a series of blue splodges with bird hides beside them. But where these lakes should have been there was only dry heathland. Tiny pink and yellow flowers had grown on long, wispy stalks and stone chats abounded everywhere. But there should have been water.

The rangers in the visitor centre who seemed friendly, but distracted and a little sad explained to us.  

Apparently, climate change meant the rains had been too brief. Plus agriculture had then extracted too much water from the aquifer. Instead of being a marshy paradise, the area was threatened with desertification. 

We went on to find a river which still had water, and consequently a wildlife spectacle worthy of Attenborough, but we were mindful we might be seeing some of the last of this special area.

It seems none of us can take a holiday from climate change.

From the very edge to the very centre

The Roman emperor Hadrian was born very close to Seville. 

Last year, Nigel and I walked Hadrian's Wall in Cumbria and Northumberland - the very outskirts of his empire,  watched by wary sheep as we paced the rugged boundary. 

This year, however, we visited Hadrian's birthplace, the very heart of civilisation, in Italica, once the third biggest city of the Roman empire (after Rome and Alexandria). In Italica, huge houses, furnished with the most elegant mosaics, were ranged around garden courtyards. Our friend Hilary told us to look out for a mosaic with 32 panels showing life-like portrayals of birds. We found it and lingered, identifying the species. 

But the thing that struck me most in Italica was the public baths. The Italica baths are extensive.  But this is one highlight of Roman life that IS found even at Hadrian's Wall - life on the frontier was conducted without courtyard gardens and exquisite mosaics, but a life without a hot communal bathhouse was not contemplated. The baths at Chesters Roman fort were much smaller than those at Italica, but surely, in the Northumbrian cold, twice as welcome.

Not a proper patio

When I hear the word 'patio' I picture the paved area in our backyard.  Essentially it is hardstanding for our picnic table and pots of herbs.

I was therefore intrigued to hear that Seville had especially beautiful patios. Just what did that mean?  Did they perhaps have integral barbecues? Or a discreet pebble fountain au Titchmarsh?

What I found was that here a patio is a whole courtyard, fragrant with jasmine or orange trees, brightened by tiles with geometric designs (azulejos) and centered on a rippling fountain.

Andalusia was under Moorish control until the twelfth century. Even after that, the Spaniards were reluctant to relinquish the very beautiful architectural style (Mudejar), one of the things which had attracted Nigel to this area. 

To plunge through the crowded narrow streets and then come on one of these outdoor sitting rooms is to encounter an oasis.  Here, people take a moment to read a book or play with their children.

The thing however that did link these Seville patios to our own was the presence of doves. We have never visited a city where there were so many white doves, and it made it feel like home. 

Even if there was no integral barbecue.

Carmona and the talking urn

We took a day trip to Carmona, a perfect town built before the Romans, before even the Carthaginians, on a hill rising from the fertile plain where farmers cultivated olives. The white-painted town boasted baroque  churches and tall palaces, and at the Seville and Cordoba gates, massive ancient fortresses. 

In the narrow cobbled streets we spotted the double trail of candle wax droplets and the balconies draped in red, evidence that Carmona had been having its own Holy Week processions. 

But the thing I enjoyed the most was the trip to the old Roman burial ground just outside. There were grand tombs flanked by columns and water features, and modest columbaria - niches for pots holding the cremation ashes of the dead.

 But my very favourite thing was in the small site museum and the way it catered for children. At the bottom of each information board there was a cartoon character with a speech bubble giving a shortened version of the caption. 

I stood scratching my head wondering just what this cartoon character was supposed to represent. And then, I spotted in a display case, the thing it had been modelled on. There were several terracotta boxes like simple houses with roof-lids.

 They were made to hold the bones and ash of the cremated dead. 

The museum had chosen to enhance kiddies' visits with a picture of a talking cremation urn!

Human tapas

We were so sad that our timing was slightly out and we were doomed to miss the famous Easter Parades of the religious brotherhoods in Seville. 

We had seen pictures of the 'Nazarenes' wearing pointed Klan-style hoods, parading the narrow Mediaeval streets, a great ornate silver cross at the front of each procession, a massive Baroque float at the rear, bearing Mary in all her glory surrounded by candles and vases of white flowers, each accompanied by a separate marching band. How disappointed we were that we would miss it. 

Until we discovered that it all kicked off while we were still there on Palm Sunday (Domingo de Ramos). We discovered this by being trapped heel to toe, nose to back-of-head with hundreds of thousands of Spanish people as we tried very hard to get from A to B.  A (our hotel) should only have been eight minutes from B (the restaurant), but under these conditions, it took over an hour and a half. Every so often we managed to break free and scuttle down an unfrequented alley, only to become wedged in another knot of people, with the distant view of pointed hats parading slowly past the end of the street. It felt like being trapped in a particularly fiendish level of a computer game.

At one point, when we were forced to bide still, a lovely young woman who was an English teacher explained to me that there was a brotherhood (hermanidad) associated with each neighborhood church.  The people wearing the pointed hoods were Nazarenes or penitents. For le Paz, which was the group we were watching, there were two thousand Nazarenes and around five thousand other supporters, present in their Sunday best.  The Nazarenes trudged around the city for many hours, day and night, some barefoot, some carrying crosses. The tall hoods hid their identity and pointed to God. They were thus not claiming admiration for their act of penitence.

By the time we returned from our restaurant at night, the streets were even more packed. 

However, what really struck me was that the whole festival still had religion at its heart. There was little visible drunkenness, the young people's smart clothes were colourful and tight but displayed little flesh. And touchingly, whenever a Mary float was heaved past, the boisterous crowd shushed one another, crossed themselves, and watched in respectful silence.

La Giralda

There were no warning signs at the entrance at the foot of the Giralda - a tower 104 meters high.

But that's ridiculous I thought. Someone with a heart condition or weak knees might set off to climb the tower.

However the tower had been designed to allow donkeys to climb it carrying people or goods.  Therefore the ascent was achieved not by a precipitous staircase but by a series of thirty-five shallow ramps.

The stream of people ascending ran alongside the line of people descending, each keeping to their respective right. So if one felt tired it appeared easy to swap over and return to the ground. 

The fact that each stage was manageable and that starting the climb did not require a big commitment meant that a huge number of people attained the top of the tower. 

As we jostled elbows for a view from one of the windows at the top we realised just how many people of all ages had made it.

Perhaps humans would achieve more if all aspects of life were designed with donkeys in mind.

Arrival, Seville

In the past, before we became aware of climate change we used to fly. I always thought it a miracle to be in grey, rainy London in the morning and somewhere bursting with heat and light in the afternoon. 

This time we took the train. It was still a miracle of modern travel to be able to say 'Only yesterday morning we were in grey rainy London.'

When we arrived in the heat and light of Seville  what struck me was the scent of orange blossom and wisteria in the  courtyards (patios) and the shrill gleeful cry of swifts hurtling through the high narrow streets. We were not just in another country but in another season - summer.

And as we trotted round the cobbled streets orienting ourselves, we stumbled on a band of flamenco musicians and dancers busking. Their twitching, stamping clicking dance held us spellbound. 

Not just a different season, but a different world.  

And I'm glad we reached it by train. The luxury of going on holiday abroad is costly but it should not literally cost us the earth.

I do not like green eggs and ham

I don't know how many years Nigel has been dreaming of a trip to southern Spain.

Finally we are going. He has prepared the itinerary - Seville, Donana, Cordoba & Granada, all by train, not plane for climate reasons.

For my part, I have learned rudimentary Spanish using Duolingo and an audio book. To learn Spanish is something I have wanted to do, also for a number of years but finally I had a good reason to invest the time. 

I love the sensation of learning a lot of new material in a short time. It has invigorated my brain and cheered me at a grey time when older family members have been ill and causing concern.

However, the early lessons focused weirdly on an item of food I hope I am never called on actually to consume - la hamburguesa con pescado.

'What would you like?'

'I would like a hamburger with fish.'

OR

'What do you have?'

'I have a hamburger with fish.'

Dear Spanish people, 

we anticipate that your usual cuisine may cause us to compromise our vegetarianism. However, please do keep your hamburguesa con pescado to yourselves. I really don't like the sound of it.

No gracias.

Clare

Departure

It is always difficult to leave on holiday. Particularly now with the spring bulbs pushing up in our garden - blue hyacinths and yellow daffodils recalling the flag of Ukraine. 

In the pond, frogspawn (see pic).

In the nestbox, blue tits.

In the dove cote eggs have been laid - there will be chicks by the time we return.

We will miss Easter at our church.

There are some climate events we won't be there to support.

But I guess the regrets attendant on parting are a good thing. They mean we inhabit our lives enthusiastically, rather than constantly seeking to escape.

At least we know our lovely guests are house-sitting for us, watering pot plants and seedlings, refilling the wild bird feeders.

As we prepare to depart I soothe myself by visualising our return. Our rooms in the house are tidier than usual so we can come in and relax. 

And we'll be back in no time.