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.

A total white-wash!

Dawn and Steve, it is your fault that we ran out of excuses. 

It was going to be impossible for us to paint the bedrooms at the weekend because we were meeting up with you.

We were saying things like “We would love to paint the upstairs but unfortunately we can’t – we are meeting Dawn and Steve.”  And then we had to try not to look smug.

But then you baled on us.  And ever since, our life has been dominated by the ominous rumble of paint rollers on walls and the stink of white spirit. 

For the last week, our home has been a man-trap of vicious exposed carpet gripper and tacky white gloss.

After an hour or so undercoating skirting, I decided to WhatsApp Pascoe.  He was probably as bored as I was, writing up an academic paper.  But no, he and his pals, Caroline and Ian, had just completed the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge on unicycles.  Not only that, but they had then discovered a bluebell wood and a magical cave from which ran a spring.

The following morning, I texted Carenza – “Thought you might enjoy a chat while you trudge to work.”

“Not trudging today, Mum.  I’m on holiday in Seville with my girlfriends.”

So, Dawn and Steve, we are the only ones having a bad time.  And it is all your fault.