Met the couple again at breakfast and acquired some useful Spanish phrases. A mother and daughter were eating at the same table, the former eulogising on the sonorous beauty of the Spanish language whilst other languages sound so ugly particularly Welsh! She comes from Cardiff although she isn’t Welsh and has no knowledge of the language, apart from its sound. I mentioned that I was born in Cardiff but grew up in Dinas Powys. The daughter timidly volunteered that a friend of hers lives in Dinas. What a small world!
There was a scramble for seats on the coach, some still following the original ‘daily move instructions’, others just attempting to grab their favourite seat. Once all had settled, Raymond began a recap of what ‘we’ did yesterday. He uses ‘we’ regally, knocking off for a siesta once the local guide has taken over.
Glorious, cloudless blue sky. At 8.45 am the sun already feels hot through the coach window. Thank heavens for air conditioning. We continue to drive across the plain of Andalusia, rolling wheat fields and sunflowers border this main north-south motorway. It’s packed with traffic travelling south, apparently in July Moorish immigrants head for home in North Africa.
There are lots of billboards on each side of the motorway with photographs of smartly suited men beaming down benignly. Candidates for the forthcoming European Election.
Cornfields roll on like the dunes of the Sahara. A cutout of a large black bull stands out on the hillside, a symbol of Osbourne Brandy apparently. Raymond continues to recap on what ‘we’ saw in Grenada and Cordoba. Very useful actually if you’re interested in retaining detail.
It must be very perilous ploughing these enormous fields as the gradients are very steep, there are no hedges and only isolated trees for miles. Today the sunflowers disdain our presence and worship the sun behind us.
The windows of the coach are flecked with pretty coloured lines. It rained briefly yesterday, the raindrops brought sand from the Sahara with them.
‘Reservado Para No Fumatores’, my Spanish is progressing, use a bit of French, a bit of Italian and guesswork. ‘La Frontera’ marks the line in the past which divided the Islamic and Christian religions.
Drive into an area of vineyards. These vines are short and stocky with bushy leaves which protect the grapes. They grow along trellises and produce ‘table grapes’. We’re approaching the Mantilla area where many ‘bodegas’ make grapes into sherry, brandy or wine. Time to stop and visit the ‘bodega’ of Arvila and learn how these grapes are transformed..
In times past they were harvested by hand, placed in earthenware vats and trampled under feet. Now, they are thrown into giant tanks. In the centre of each is a giant corkscrew which turns and crushes the grapes. These tanks, a vast roomful of them about waist high, extended by five times that amount out of sight in cellars below the floor.
After a few weeks the juice, ready for the cheaper type of wine, is transferred to huge, thirty feet tall metal tanks for fermentation. (More traditionally, the juice was placed in giant barrels of American red wood oak.) These, placed in a warehouse about the size of yesterday’s cathedral, were balanced four high in rows whilst more bubbled in vats stored beneath our feet.
As the wine matures, the bottom level of barrels is removed, so the fourth level becomes the third level, the third the second and the second, the most expensive wine in production, ferments for the longest time.
We weren’t allowed into the bottling plant for health and safety reasons but three bottles of sherry were brought out for us to sample as we watched a film showing the production process. This was followed, of course, by a visit to their shop, £2.50 for a bottle of sherry, slightly more for a bottle of brandy. Both reckoned to be of good value, by those in the group considering purchase.
Back on the coach we listen to more history whilst in transit. Bull fights, ‘Corrida da Toros’ or ‘Plaza de Toros’ began in the seventeenth century in Andalusia, taking place countrywide on Sundays from April till October, and sometimes on special Thursdays. All major cities had impressive bullrings, bullfighting was considered a venerable tradition.
Each fight is divided into three parts, all players in dazzling costumes, the bull, black. Firstly the ‘Picadors’, men on horseback, enter the ring to tease the bull. They stab it with their lances to draw blood and drive the bull into a frenzy. Next come the ‘Banderilleros’, fighters who continue to tease the bull placing darts on its shoulders whilst dancing around to avoid being trampled. Finally, the star bull fighter, the ‘Matador’ twirling a cape and wielding a sword deals the final blow. His sword pierces the heart of the bull, it crashes to the floor dying , if not already dead . The audience erupts into a frenzy of cheers and screams in an emotional release rather like the crowd at a football match after a winning goal.
In Andalusia bulls are reared specifically for fighting whilst matadors can achieve fame and fortune, such as El Cordobes. There are different fighting traditions in different countries. For example in Portugal the bull leaves the ring wounded but alive and is slaughtered the next day.
Having detailed this aspect of Spanish life Raymond continues, describing the proliferation of gum trees and pine trees, before reiterating details of Grenada, Cordoba and Queen Isabella, who in 1502 banned Islam from all of Castile.
The thread of history suddenly leapt forward to the Spanish Civil War 1936-1939 between Nationalists and Republicans . The Nationalists won, General Franco rose to become Dictator and ruled Spain until his death in1975. No Dictator, no Monarchy. Within two weeks Prince Juan Carlos was pronounced King (a complicated heredity) of Spain. His wife Sophia was Greek, they had three children. He was intelligent, much travelled and popular with the people.
The coach made a detour into the attractive town of Ecija, lots of leafy squares, innumerable churches with very tall bell towers decorated with ornate tile work. There must have been, and possibly still is, a lot of wealth in the area. The main square was surrounded by arcades, so cooling in the southern heat, and a wide diversity of houses built above little shops. Apparently it’s one of the hottest places in Spain with temperatures rising to 130 degrees F/ 54 degrees C in summer!!
As we approach Seville, Raymond begins to give detailed instructions on our next hotel. How to use the room card key system, how the buffet system at dinner will work and, drew our attention to the payment slips at the breakfast buffet table. “Some people like to take out a roll, some slices of meat, some cheese, an apple. The hotel doesn’t like you to do this and will make you pay. Please avoid this embarrassment.” He moved on to the safe deposit boxes.” It’s very advisable to use these, there are problems on every tour, Seville does have its undesirables.” Well, so much for the Introduction to the city.
The Hotel Don Paco had a large entry hall and huge dining room, built to cater for several large tour groups simultaneously. Canteen style catering was quick but totally lacking in Spanish authenticity apart from a charming “Marco! Marco!" interlude with the barman which brought back all the game playing of being in a Latin country, the only indication in ten days. We were not accosted anywhere in the street, not hassled to make purchases, even the beggars wanted but didn’t pester for money.
The first afternoon we rested through the heat of the day before joining a tour to flamenco dancing in the evening. The theatre was reminiscent of an old music hall I once visited in London, a deep u-shape with one tier of balcony. Tables and chairs were dotted all around and waiters served drinks throughout the performance.
We managed to find seats almost directly above the stage so were able to see the intensity of feeling generated by the young dancers, the fire of the movements certainly seemed to come from inside to out, it was more than just a performance for tourists.
Six younger dancers, both men and women, performed flamenco and folk dances sometimes together, sometimes solo items. One young man was quite spectacular in his movements. The older members of the group seemed tired, as though the fire had gone out of them, that this was just a performance which soon might be their last. Altogether, a very colourful evening.
The following morning we were taken on a tour down wide avenues around the old town fringed by a wide river. Everywhere there were trees, more actually than people, orange blossom, magnolias and many other varieties which thrived in the shady conditions. The impression was of a light airy city with a huge variety of attractive buildings in white and yellows decorated with blue tile work and frescoes.
As with Grenada and Cordoba the central part of Seville was built on Roman and Visigoth foundations with some remaining old Moorish walls, crenelated with a triangular piece of stone atop each raised section.
The palaces within the city walls also looked Moorish but closer examination revealed flowers and faces never included in Islamic art. It seems that at time of building, the typical Christian northern European architecture was very unsophisticated, therefore. skilled Moorish artists were retained. As extensions were added to the buildings over the years so more sophisticated frescoes, matching columns, painted ceilings and items which personally identified subsequent rulers were added. Their lovely cooling, fountain-filled gardens remain.
We walked on to Plaza d’Espagna, a vast semi-circular building in pale reddish brick divided into sections along its base, one for each area of Spain. A map at floor level indicated its geographical location in the country whilst above it was a tiled picture depicting things of interest there. Archways linked each section. Above these were heads of important people in Spanish history, the roof soared above them, quite spectacular.
On to the cathedral, more attractive than those seen so far. The altar was huge, covered in gold leaf from floor to ceiling, divided into panels each holding a marble sculpture depicting a scene from the life of Christ. Oil paintings and fresh white flowers decorated the main chapel where chairs were being laid out for the Sunday service. There were hundreds of people looking around, guides giving out information in different languages, too much detail to absorb.
Wandered briefly through the narrow white streets of the old town past the convent of St Teresa, past the house where the painter Murillo lived, flowers dripping unexpectedly over walls and from balconies.
I left the group to pay a brief visit to the Museo del Belles Artes, a beautiful cool white and tiled building surrounded by gardens. Most of the paintings were religious, many of course by Murillo, he certainly had a way with cherubs.
Wandered back to the air conditioning of my room to rest a while from the heat before wandering out in search of the river and a group boat ride. We motored alongside the Expo ’92 site where remnants of pavilions remain linked to the city by cable cars, and a graceful bridge decorated with a harp-like structure. It’s still possible to visit the site and there are often laser and fireworks displays at night.
More attractive in the city were the remains of the 1929 Latin America Exhibition, beautiful houses in the style of each country represented now used mainly as offices, museums and schools.
Also lovely, an old tobacco factory in pale cream stone which reached global fame in the opera and subsequent film of ‘Carmen’ by Bizet. I think it’s now used as part of Seville university. We passed more spacious parks dotted about but without a map it was difficult to understand the actual layout of the city.
On Saturday morning we left early. Drove out through a mixed agricultural area, tobacco, sunflowers, a few cows and acres of plastic greenhouses irrigated by long underground water channels. There were road taxes to pay on the autovia. A huge amount of money had been spent on the summer Olympics in Barcelona and, of course, the recent Expo in Seville and this had to be recouped.
Cruelty to animals yet again, a flock of dusty sheep, standing in a field in the heat, no shade.
Have just seen a signpost to Jerez of sherry fame. Festivals are held there after the grape harvest.
As the coach rises up and over a hill, see a faint strip of blue on the horizon, a return to the Atlantic Ocean. We’re heading for Cadiz, which is on the Portugal side of Gibraltar. Many small white houses are now scattered across the plain. A rim of tall white buildings suddenly hide the sea.
Raymond announces that Cadiz was founded in 1144 BC by the Phoenicians. The Port, El Puerto, was initially the main harbour of mainland Spain and today is the country’s second busiest port. Close by is Algeciras where ferries depart for North Africa.
We drive past the salt marshes of Cadiz. They look like regular marshland cut into beds, sea water is let in briefly to cover each bed it is then left to evaporate leaving the salt. Nowadays, this method of salt production is rarely used, refrigeration technology has taken over. The marshes continued for miles.
The coach stopped at a small bodega for our use of restrooms and more sherry sampling. The owner was obviously a devotee of bull fighting for his rows of barrels were strung with photos of famous matadors. The most impressive was a painting with the BULL as victor, its foot anchored proudly on the dying matador, whose wife wept alongside. A rare image!
As the drive continues Raymond issues large envelopes to us all, Evaluation Time, to be completed later. We drive into low hills covered with fields divided by hedges and occasional trees almost like England. Another range of sierras appears, back to woods of pine trees, and a field of bulls grazing at leisure. Wonder whether they are destined for The Ring?
Delight, back to a sandy seashore with hazy mountains rising in the distance opposite, the Rif mountains of northern Morocco just about 8 miles across the sea. The Arabs first crossed to Spain in 711 AD landing at Tarifa Beach, they gradually conquered large areas of Spain and, initially, ruled unchallenged for three centuries.
We drive along the Costa de la Luz, the Coast of Light, beautiful beaches , not yet built up just a few camp sites. But on the hilltops were modern windmills generating electricity for towns in the area and for ‘special projects’??
Raymond is elaborating again, another quirk of history, the port of Ceuta just across the water, apparently in Morocco, is actually an autonomous Spanish city!
Up and over another hill and below, at the far end of the plain in the hazy sunshine, a giant, slightly squashed matador’s hat, the Rock of Gibraltar, a solid chunk of limestone. Thirty million gallons of water are held inside the Rock, also a submarine base and ‘nuclear projects’. During the War of Spanish Succession 1704 the Rock was captured by an Anglo-Dutch fleet. It was formally ceded to Britain in 1713.
Today we drive around new blocks of flats in Algeciras, white walled villas with red tiled roofs, on to the ring road, past oil refineries and finally reach the man-made causeway to cross to the Rock. At the foot of the Rock found tight clusters of flats, offices, hotels, a beach and clear blue sea. We had just three hours to explore this extended land of Britain so took a minibus tour.
A road wound around to the less populated part of the Rock, greenery dripping water from high above, some into the blue water below, some into vast tanks inside the Rock. There’s also a vast cavity inside big enough to house the population in time of war, also many other caves and tunnels. The beauty of limestone. I remember the historic grottos of cave art in southern France.
Odd, keep noticing Africa rising out of the mist across the water.
Drove on to a grotto, a natural limestone cave with wonderful stalagmites rising from its floor and stalactites growing down from the cave ceiling, it's actually used as a setting for a theatre! There was classical music playing in the background but the environment was damp and rather cold.
We drove on to visit the Barbary apes. The name refers to the Berber people of North Africa but it’s not quite clear who brought them to Gibraltar. Tradition has it that they guarantee the security of the Rock but they just seemed like mangy monkeys looking for a nut.
From the heights of the Rock there was an excellent view down onto the harbour. It must have been quite a sight in Napoleon’s day, what a strategic location at this entry to the Mediterranean from the Atlantic. The Spanish still have their eyes on it apparently, although both countries are members of the EEC.
Well, that was Gibraltar in three hours, we're now driving back along the Mediterranean coast towards Malaga passing camp sites, villas, apartment blocks, garden centres and many bright green golf courses. Golfing holidays are a great tourist attraction. There are some beautiful resort complexes then miles of empty beaches backed by waste ground before we arrive back in Torremolinos and the Hotel Flamingo.
Time to paddle in the Med. Water still warm at 7.30pm and the beach more crowded than a week earlier.
Farewells to some of the group leaving early tomorrow, they’ve been a friendly crowd. Others, including myself, prepare for a day of leisure by the sea, whilst hoping there will not be a night of waiting at Malaga airport.
Life has become timeless, a moment to reflect on the
‘Week in Romantic Andalucia’.
Love Pen
PS. I brought home an unexpected souvenir of Spain, Food Poisoning!
Felt like a limp lettuce leaf for three days.
Apologies again for computer's inability to edit photos.
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Interesting - Guardian 27.8.22 -'Green gold for Spanish farmers, ditch olives for pistachios in order to survive.'
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Next Week - A Week's Walking Holiday with Holiday Fellowship
based at Thurlestone, Devon.
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