More Notes from Spain

13 May 2012

We pack our bags and walk to the Arenal car park. It's €50 for three days parking. Out along the route suggested by the tourist office. For once we get it right. On to the freeway to Santander and then west along the north coast of Spain before we turn south into the Picos mountains. The scenery is stunning. Great cliffs arise on both sides of the road. Canoeists tackle the rushing river that runs beside the road.

We have told our hosts to expect us at 4 and it's just lunchtime. So we kill three hours in the bustling resort town of Potes, lined with tourist shops. It's like a snow-free ski resort.

At 3.30 we head on to our destination village where our host greets us. His apartments are similar in concept to those we had at the Quinta but far more luxuriously fitted and furnished. We pay him the balance of what we owe and are given the house rules to study. It's a smoke free zone. Don't even dream of lighting up. Walk up the next village for exercise.

We sup at the most amazing little restaurant in the hills ten minutes away. Our seats on the patio look out on to the mountains. And the food is brilliant - all four courses. An elderly English couple, Evonne and John, arrive and join us in conversation, mainly about art.

"Are you an art historian?" asks Evonne.

"No," I reply, "but I am complimented that you should mistake me for one."

"Actually," she says, "I was referring to your wife".

I am more amused than offended.

Later, when the conversation turns to dogs, Evonne asks:

"Do you breed dogs?"

"No, they breed themselves," I explain helpfully;"we just adopt them."

It makes me feel better.

When we get back I spend an hour assisting Evonne on the computer.

14 May

A SMART FATIMA-HAND KNOCKER
We drive 15 kms through the hills to Potes. It's market day and the town is full of people and coaches. We hear lots of French conversations. At a table of second hand objects I buy a Fatima-hand knocker and later a walking stick. We wander around and then return to base for lunch and a snooze.

Then we walk 2kms down the twisting road to a rough bar at the crossroads. Inside half a dozen locals are playing cards. A large woman detaches herself from the group and comes to serve us. I have a brandy and Jones a glass of wine. The woman charges us tourist prices. It's 40 minutes back up the road to home and supper.

After each stay along our route I have uploaded a brief assessment of our lodgings to Trip Advisor. So far Jones has found my descriptions fair and useful. I show her what I plan to write this time:

"Guests may expect to be welcomed in the manner of new pupils being admitted to an exclusive school by a firm but kindly headmaster. Outstanding fees are payable immediately in cash and the rule book is presented for prompt attention."

And more in the same vein.

Jones doesn't approve and urges me not to upload the comments. Reluctantly, I take her advice.

15 May 2012

We drive across a mountain pass to the town of Cervera. The views and scenery are stunning. At the top of the mountain we park and take a 30 minute walk along a mountain track. A bus is parked at a look-out point.

It has presumably deposited a group of hikers who are making their way to a distant lake. We carry on, driving carefully through a group of tinkling-bell cows that are making their way to a pasture further up the road. The tinkling fills the valleys around here day and night.

Cervera is a working town. We park outside an attractive cafe where we take coffee. The loos are upstairs. A sliding door reveals the men's loo in its glory, for the ladies to pass by en route to their own toilet. Our more prudish North American visitors must be shocked.

Explosions rock the cafe. Not from the toilets fortunately.

We go out to explore. It's some kind of feastday. Behind the church a fellow is settling off rockets every couple of minutes from a wooden shield that he grasps on his left wrist. The rockets whoosh into the sky and explode with a great noise.

A four person band - two drummers and two brass players - lead a small procession up the road. Two priests go outside to meet and bless the group and the statue the latter is carrying. Then they all process into the church for a ceremony.

We leave them to it and drive up the road to take a look at the fancy parador. It's very smart but not for us. We head back home, park in a nearby village and take a long walk to another village higher up the hill. Where's the bar, we ask an elderly villager as we arrive, using our hands to imitate someone drinking from a cup.

There's none, he tells us, so we tramp back down again.

That night we sup again at the amazing restaurant high in the hills. The restaurant dog makes ut clear that he's delighted to see us back. It's much colder this time and the waiter lights a gas heater to keep us warm. We are the only guests.

16 May

We arise early, creeping around the apartment to avoid disturbing the people below us. We're away by seven. It's going to be a long day. The first 60 kms is over a mountain pass that winds endlessly up through the hills. It's slow going but beautiful. We climb steadily higher, entering the clouds and then rising above them, like a plane. Jonesy takes numerous pictures, trying to capture the magic.

It's two hours to the other side of the mountain and then another five hours by roads wide and narrow to distant Santiago. Along the way we pass hundreds of pilgrims, some on cycles, most on foot, making their slow way to the city. Spain is huge, with scenery reminiscent of the American west. No wonder they shoot cowboy films here.

Just after three we enter the outskirts of Santiago. Luck has brought us in on a road that leads directly to the historic centre. We park in a garage close to our hotel and walk. We are welcomed by Roberto. He's remarkable, a body of energy, attending to half a dozen people and tasks simultaneously and making them all feel special.

As I later write on Trip Advisor, he runs the little hotel the way that Basil Fawlty should have run Fawlty Towers, and it's fabulous. Like most people in Galicia, the north-western part of Spain, Roberto speaks both Spanish and Galego. The latter is close enough to Portuguese for us to communicate easily. What a relief it is to be able to speak to people once again.

After dropping off our bags we make our way down into Santiago's historical quarter. It's large, noisy, full of narrow roads and people. Tourist shops and bars are everywhere between the churches, museums and palaces.

The cathedral is vast and full of noisy visitors speaking a dozen languages and more. At open confessionals along the walls, priests wait for sinners to confess their sins. One or two penitents whisper their misdeeds to the clerics. We pass them by.

A woman at Tourist Information explains that according to legend, the body of the apostle, James, was found and buried in the city. (Santiago means St James.) It's this legend that has given rise to the pilgrimage culture - lucky for Santiago, for it brings commerce on which thousands depend for a living.

There are half a dozen pilgrimage routes, from Portugal, Spain, France and the UK, clearly marked on signposts along the way.

The night is noisy and it's hard to sleep. Raising the window brings us fresh air but a lot more clamour. We leave it shut.

17 May 2012

We wake to bangs. It's Ascension Thursday, a great feastday and holiday in the city. In the streets dancers and musicians in colourful costumes make their way to the squares. We join the crowds watching in fascination. The bagpipe is much in evidence. Indeed, we see the instrument carved into ancient stones in museums.

The Galego history museum gives us a good picture of traditional life in Galicia. It's a hard one, mainly fishing and agriculture, with widespread emigration to new worlds and a better life. For once it's easy to read the explanations.

From the base of a wide circular tower, three sets of stairs ascend the walls, one above another. We've never seen the likes.

In the old city our way is blocked by a huge crowd of demonstrators - men, women and children bearing banners of every description.

For half an hour they parade past us, chanting and chatting, with intermittent bands to keep up their spirits. It's clear that they are all in favour of more autonomy for Galicia but they seem to be associated with every kind of political and social movement.

I stop to buy a small painting from a young woman artist who is displaying her wares. With her is her young cousin. It's good to have something original to remember the city, rather than a mass produced item from a tourist shop.

After supper at a small restaurant we return to the hotel for drinks in the garden and to check the route out of the city. There's no noise tonight. We sleep well.